Final Shirt

 After my father died, my mother

and my sisters picked the shirt, the tie;

he had just the one suit.

I left them to it. I didn't

want to choose, I loved him

all those years. They took a shirt

from the closet., I don't remember

which one, I'm sure he had worn it

to church and hung it up again.

They held the tie against the cloth

of the shirt. They decided, finally.

It's like that. Things come down

to the pale blue or the white,

or some other. Someone buttoned it

over him, those buttons he had unbuttoned.

Marge Saiser