𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬
Because it was made in the USA my shirt weeps with pride. Maybe the last of its species. It would like to find another shirt with which to mate and produce more shirts, but that’s impractical. No one in this country knows how to birth shirts. Because it has been weeping it’s wet, so I take it off and wring it. It whimpers but accepts the rebuke. Anyway, supper is simpering on the stove, and I’m too busy to attend to my shirt. Supper applies to all present, whether their shirts were made in the USA or in some up and coming nation. Let’s eat. I look around at my guests, who represent every corner of the world. They attack my pork chops with vigor, even the self-proclaimed vegans, who’ve primed themselves with my best Argentinian wine. The mashed potatoes loft like thunderheads. The green beans look dainty as elfin flutes and will surely be as musical. Everyone’s eating with gusto and verve. All are cheerfully dressed in bold summer colors, but none of their shirts look American. They probably came from Thailand, Cambodia, China, Vietnam: the newest shirteries of the world. I’d like to return to that slice of the globe and visit Bangkok and Singapore. I’d like to wear my American shirt to the great shirt-shops and watch the sewers sew. One must reap what one sews, of course, but those workers are struggling to survive in deadly conditions, their families cringing with hunger. My shirt would like to improve the pay and working environment for all the shirt-makers of the world; but one shirt, possibly the last American-made, can’t solve all the planet’s problems. Supper is almost done. Perhaps over dessert and brandy my friends will advise me and my shirt how to proceed.
[Bio: William Doreski has published three critical studies and several collections of poetry. His work has appeared in many print and online journals. He has taught at Emerson College, Goddard College, Boston University, and Keene State College. His most recent books are Water Music and Train to Providence. williamdoreski.blogspot.com]