A wave of the hand
and I am banished
to the dungeon
of lint and lost buttons
between dryer and wall.
It’s true of course I’m no longer
that dashing young Argyle
in shiny wrapper
who caught your fancy
all those strides ago
beneath the Fashionable Footwear sign.
But how could you
sweep so tactlessly away
the dance of the fire on chill winter nights,
Dark Victory Bette Davis tears,
fudge ripple ice cream straight from the carton,
the trees in crimson and gold that day we buried Dulcinea,
the way I worshiped the ground you walked on,
the foot with which you walked upon it—
unless this cold-shouldered farewell
reflects the wry glint in your eye at which I wondered
when first you brought us home,
stripped us naked,
and slipped into my twin before me.
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