by Jack Sagar

I want to ‘pick’ out a wardrobe
with someone, anyone who
will take me and all my
bow ties and pairs of worn-out sweatpants.
Mahogany sunshine sounds like a 
spirit to me, or the final high that 
him and I can try once and 
forget like all the times we were grounded.
Brass doorknobs we can
turn, unlock together
and look inside
into blank space in which we will grow.
Someday he’ll laugh and say
that the tatty, toiled
thing should be
thrown away and then we will argue for days.
I’ll sit inside and want not
to cry, lie beside the
jeans that fit him
too well and they share a hanger with mine too.
His football boots and my
shirts, ties for tenderly
teaching philosophy
to those who’re yet to buy furniture.
Cuff links from our wedding
day, night-time dreams
matched in no shirts
and cushy, cocoa-stained flannel shorts.
I’ll call him and be
honest, “Honey
we can lose
our wardrobe as long as we keep what’s