And here’s my old shirt, blue
and green with busted holes
two, three, no, four
buttons blown away –
bounced off backdoors
of barrooms or pool halls,
glittered down towards gutters
always bubbling full of rain
and clogged full of leaves
slick and shiny
as the backs of roaches

sleeves unroll hardly halfway
down the arm, hand and same
skinny boy wrist left
choirboy nekked and exposed
which any fool could snap
with a sneer or a cold look

all the old boys
hung up there, handed down
sometimes even twice before
same washed out colours
dangle off lopey goofball I –

friends seen, when was it last, a year, two?
it’s me, same old me,
same old beat shirt, blessed be
the frayed edges, floating in
like a character off a cancelled show
or a kept receipt whose ink
has long rubbed clean.