New matter, in white, thread gleaming in dim light, a story, a tale of wearing’s now not known. What sought you this day, recycled since May, a rich man’s shirt with fiber left blood stained. St Alban’s thrift shop, for those with less than not, what just released from detox has he bought. Some slacks would be nice to go home and face the wife, her disappointment balanced with her care. His head held in grief, a drunk but not a thief, he finds his shirt and shoes, his pants with pleats. There seems now a plan to dress himself a man, to take his sober life to be complete.
There’s now this white shirt, a stitch so fine, it makes it journey hard to find. A minor washed out stain, that’s hidden and misplaced, what threads are loose are going to be okay. He wonders what king on K-Street left his queen, did she in anger draw his plasma as he ran. It matters not what, he has his own sad lot, a taste of drink has made a fallen man. He thinks of his own, his wife and child at home, his chemical need has thrown their love away. What now as he walks, by statutes and wealthy lots, the rooms of power they seem so far away. It’s all that they own, their need of power, conceals a loss of home.
He stops in Bryce Park, it’s really getting dark, he changes from his soil into his thrift shop wear. He looks to see, if his change is seen, his mind a whirl of something that is there.
What passes through his arms, a genetic like charm, from power to woe in man a place is given. Inside it so seems, what really counts is gleaned, a gift of life is evenly given. A shirt from a liege, a bullet weaned, a gift of sorts a well of royal redemption.
He turns his face gleams, unbound from chains it seems, an equal man from drunkard to a king. He makes his way home, atonement now sewn, his scar in life is seamed and now forgiven.
She waits by the way, her face alight unfazed, she knows his gait, she knows he’s seen his vision.
What road do we wear, does it seem to care, if our soul is royal or what dominion. Created the same, born to know no shame, what vice or crime you bare there still is vision. Come find your way home, wear a shirt that’s sewn, stare your breathing heart into the given.
On Monday, March 30, 1981, President Ronald Reagan was shot and wounded as he exited the Washington DC Hilton Hotel after a speaking engagement. Reagan was taken to George Washington University Hospital where before examination his thousand dollar suit was cut off of him (much to his consternation) and his shirt was removed and taken against his staff’s wishes by the FBI along with all of his personal belongings for evidence. The belongings were returned two days later, the clothing items were kept for evidence in the trial against John Hinckley Jr the following year. It is rumored that the shirt that Ronald Reagan wore the day he was wounded, disappeared shortly after the trial, and has not been located since. – 07.29.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל