Laundered.
One hundred percent Pima
Cotton.
Carefully buttoned onto a soft
hanger. Smells like nothingness.
White like sun-bleached stones.
Fits over tattoos
tribal and otherwise
Fits over tanned biceps.
Fits under impressive hair.
On Anthony Kiedis’ mind is
every song he’s ever sung;
ballads and rock and funk
he couldn’t give the key
to the cacophonous mumur of
his secrets whispered over
music.
The cotton nicely spills
over
the yoke spread across his back
bracing those muscles
forgivingly.