Poetry
Softer It Pads
A poem that carries its pocket on its sleeve
Improbable as it may seem
My closet is home to a shadow
A quiet, restless thing
That slipped its tether
During the last eclipse
Or so I suspect
For we have not conversed
Nor have I openly discussed the matter
Only noted it here
Perhaps for fear of being considered addlepated
Or, at least, eccentric
I had not even considered
Whether the poor thing can read
For I wish it no embarrassment
I say ‘poor thing’ as it has my pity
Though it knows it not
It has no eyes, you see
At least none you can discern
So it must hug walls and curbs
Feeling its way
A soft thing
In a world of bumps and gravel
On sunny days
When I am at work
I believe it borrows my suits
Seeking adventures
Or romance
Or at least some respite from the closet’s close atmosphere
Tainted as it is with cedar and mothballs
I only came to know this accidentally
Returning early one afternoon
To a rustling sound
Followed by the click and scrape of a wire hanger fidgeting on the closet rod
Startled, I went to the bedroom
Noticing the closet door ajar
Fearing a squirrel or some other rodent
But finding nothing
Save a rumpled suit that struck me as out of place
Investigating I found a note in a pocket
Upon it written:
