Fresh Start

April 8 2020

Not used, repurposed, old.

Not cast-off

hand-me-down

previously worn.

Vintage clothes

at the dingy strip-mall thrift store.

I imagine fine wines

left to age in some cool cellar

or dusty closet,

each one bottling-up

the year of its harvest.

Back when bell bottoms were hip.

That lamentable season

overalls ruled.

Or the time bright fluorescent green

was the height of cool.

Where each item is unique.

Like some avant-garde boutique,

where sniffy girls
with nose rings and tattooed shoulders

in impossibly stylish clothes

ignore the paying clients;

except that here, in the Sally Ann

everything is cheap

with no hint of pretension.

All items

with the cloying scent

of too much laundry soap

it will take several washings to get out.

So we know they're safe,

despite the bodies they've touched

and no matter their provenance;

the rebellious kid

who thought bathing was bourgeois,

the cleared-out closet

when the funeral was done.

Perhaps a little faded and frayed,

but one-of-a-kind

and irreplaceable.

But there is hygiene

and there's contamination.

Because we invest objects

with magical properties

according to the theory of transference.

So I ask, would you wear Hitler's sweater

if you knew?

Does fabric remember?

Is washing enough?

Denim jeans

faded, soft, preshrunk.

A real find

from some name brand designer.

A souvenir shirt

promoting your favourite band.

Off the rack, as is;

no history attached

no money-back returns.

And the virtuous feeling

of reusing, recycling

instead of simply discarding.

The kind of fresh start

we only wish we could have.