The Sweater
by Odin Roark


The aged veteran sits idly
Upon rocker and barren porch,
Remembering.

Unlike a space suit,
Its every fiber fit
By rigid standard.

Unlike the starched khaki shirt,
Its extremities forged firm as armor,
Its pleats kept at attention.

Unlike the dress blues,
Symbolic of authority and command,
Unyielding in its façade of glory.

The sweater,
Like love,
Molds to behavior,
Forever willing to comfort the flesh
And bring warmth to the heart.

As passion's woven threads
Assimilate the wearer's hardships,
Fear of frayed ends disappear,
Accepting entwined living
Is not without accident and wear.

Affection asks little in return,
Needing only to be spared
The folding into a drawer
Of forgotten memories.

Given care,
The patience of love
Remains forever dedicated,
Embracing any and all it touches.

And like the tattered loyal sweater,
Judges not the body,
But dutifully complies,
Abiding the ever shrinking collapse
Of life fully lived.

The veteran rocks slowly to sleep.

His sweater held close.