His Favourite Shirt

A man’s wardrobe is like a desert
A desolate and empty place
(Unless of course he’s married,
Then his wife will grab the space.)

Men have no time for fashion
And trivialities like that
So the ‘robe just hides his porno
mags, team shirt and his baseball hat.

There might also be three pairs
of socks, a vest, and underpants
Or a pair of Donald Duck boxers
In case he’s looking for romance.

He may also own spare trousers and
some deodorant to squirt on
the armpits of a jacket
he bought ten years ago from Burton.*

But in the darkest corner
hangs the Sanctum Sanctorum,
his very favourite shirt.
It’s the same one that he wore on
The night his team won the cup,
The first or last time he made love,
The day he was promoted,
Or his appendix was removed

The colour has long since faded
The pattern has washed away
A neutral observer would have to agree
That shirt had had its day.

But nostalgia is not a bad thing
When Testosterone has ebbed away
A man needs memories to sustain him
While his glory fades to grey
and that shirt is sadly redolant
of endless nights of passion
the golden days of his lost youth...
Who cares if the buttons no longer fasten