The hanger swings silently, empty
of your oversized corduroy jacket,
from the inside of our bedroom door.
You wear it cause you’re cold.
A sign and its shadow out the front window,
A stretch of unparked curb,
Six bare shoulders, two watches refracting light,
You, within the shelter, hands inside your sleeves.
A bus stops.
All my clothes fit neatly
in three brown suit cases.
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/this-is-just-to-say/
I always come to this website expecting a crawdad joke. There never is one. Maybe tomorrow.
I hope to think of a crawdad joke before I die. I will tell the joke when my death is inevitable. Keep swinging, Faldo.