Paula Kirman


He said sweaters suit me,
these aged, ragged, knotty  garments
reflecting years of turmoil
masked as maturity.

A closet of memories
hang from rusty hooks.

Perhaps I should invest in
cashmere, silk, or wool lest  these
acrylic relics wear thin.

Still, I appreciated the compliment
and let him touch my winter-dry hair
kissing with static the fabric
he so admired.

Promote. Poetry.
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