by: Bruce Shearer
I have too many white shirts
They are everywhere.
Just waiting for me, all neatly pressed and ready.
First I had one, and one would be controllable
Kept carefully in check.
But could I be content with that?
Oh no, I was overconfident, complacent, cool and collected.
Then I had two, but with shirts things change fast.
They were breeding in the wardrobe, going quietly out of control.
Plotting, planning, and waiting for an opportunity.
For what I cannot say.
I am just a helpless victim of their tyranny.
When the lights go out.
As they must.
They sit there glowing.
All the same, no variety.
But how was I to know?
I wasn’t prepared.
I was deluded by their frosty freshness.
I couldn’t see the dreadful dilemma till it loomed over me.
Left without choice, nowhere to turn, no option but white.
Mauve, pink, puce these are but fleeting dreams in my torment.
I am surrounded by grinning, gloating, ghastly white business shirts.
A white frigid fright to greet me in my sleep encrusted mornings.
When I am desperate to find clothing.
Facing a searing shock of white which is
Spilling out and engulfing me in colourless chaos.
Bruce Shearer is a Melbourne writer of poems, plays and short -stories.