Ode to an Old Sweatshirt

by Carol Townsend

After thirty years of washings,
your exact color has been lost.

Bold number two pencil hue
now faded to dull ochre.

You are made of ordinary cotton,
stretched out of shape, frayed

at the neck, sleeves cut off, ending
at the elbow. Venerable Friend,

my Good Luck Charm, Survival
Accomplice, you have comforted

me while I mourned my many
losses — partner, daughter, job,

mobility. But, I am undeterred by
your infirmities despite my wife’s

threats to toss you out on garbage
day; wearing you is like being

wrapped in sunshine. The fact is,
I depend upon you even now. I too,

am faded, awkward, with pieces
missing, tethered to cane and

walker. Come, swaddle me, I beg
of you, for I await my own demise

foreshadowed in each thread that
snags, every seam that splits.