Today,
I coolly asked, “Where is my smock?”
No one had been on the look out for it.
Scrounging around and perusing, and lo –
A shattered window with my smock
left in its pathetic brokenness.
The smock was stabbed, I could see
A sharp shard sheared it.

Must be my miserable self.

An idle, pierced garment of
no particular affiliation or niche.
Just a big shirt with
stripped sleeves and little shiny buttons.
Curiously useless, furiously splattered
with turquoise and glue,
entangled in the teeth of
a Plexiglas cavern.

Must be my misery.

Then,
the Sun crawled into the
breast pocket and set it
ablaze.
Too hot to handle.
It fell off the window,
whose jaws were left agape
and unsatisfied.

On the dirty ground, the smock burned brightly,
gleaming without remorse while mocking
its captor.
The greens and silvers shivered and shook.
The hostile yellows and radiant blacks
crept about …

I'm happy for my smock.

Must be me.