discarded shells

Rip the hangers from their racks and
pull apart the empty shells;
leave no findings of forgotten flesh clinging
to buttonholes or zippers.
These shells; tan suits, navy blazers,
off-putting polos and the ties our fathers wore,
(and our fathers’ fathers),
how these defenses have
gone out of fashion.
And still ghosts linger the fabric;
still, slimy and formless creatures are seeking
a newer, bigger seersucker home,
anything to give them structure.
There is no reason to keep these shells,
no reason beyond familiarity,
and so they are discarded.

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