John Herlihy

I wanted to get back my plaid wool shirt,

A favorite of mine made from grandma’s skirt.

Whenever I wore it, I felt its gentle, warm touch;

She made it with her own hands, her love such.

One night, out with a buddy, the two of us dim,

Traipsing from bar to bar, each with a stupid grin.

Past midnight, we slept in a barn, both in a swoon;

Me three sheets to the wind, slept next day ‘til noon.

Upon awakening, I realized my friend had skedaddled;

Gone with my grandma’s shirt, into my heart I babbled.

I eventually caught up with him so many weeks later;

Sleeping contentedly in an alley, there lay my traitor.

Wrapped in the innocence of my grandma’s plaid shirt;

As he lay there lost amid the rubble, my heart felt hurt.

A sadness soon followed as I remembered something,

The kindness of my grandma’s gift, no small offering.

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(c) John Herlihy 15 March 2019