Philemon hangs the suit
upon the rack -
its foreign threads pricking his screaming
skin, his cold wife cast
off in a corner, where
no forgiveness can touch.
He watches that grey wool sway, mock
truth, such strange and bitter fruit
that tastes like black cotton
stuffed in his mouth. He cannot
weep - dry
clean only. That suit is cheap;
hastily sewn, for summer days
where sweat and soiling mingle
sighs that damn and dishevel
Now she cries, but Philemon cannot
hear, she is far, far away.
He is dying to rip that lapel
and make love to it,
finger that lingering pleasure -
the stuff that gets torn and can’t ever be mended back together.