Up in the attic,

I found an old shirt.

It was lying there,

Covered in dirt.

I cleaned it up,

and wore it again.

Crisp as ever,

not a single stain.

I wondered why,

I had thrown it away.

Its colours popping,

I took it out to play.

I asked my friends,

if they liked it too.

‘Tell me, please tell me,

your opinions true.’

‘Isn’t it like

a brand new shirt?

Tell me the truth,

I won’t be hurt.’

We love it, they said

it’s something we adore.

But their eyes said,

we’ve seen this before.

They had seen me try,

and fail before.

I had found this shirt,

in the attic before.

Its Madras print never

went with my skin.

I had tried like a fool,

but just couldn’t win.

It is time now that

I let the shirt go.

Clothes will change,

must go on, the show.

The shirt slipped away,

pulling a little trick.

Hiding from me, it

went back to the attic.

(Yes, the shirt is a metaphor for something else.)