Monday was on polka-dots,
white spotted in red.
Tuesday, a pale pink knit
with a few tattered threads.
Wednesday held a black silk,
drycleaned down the street.
Sticking out of the pocket—
directions on an old receipt.
Thursday, a soft green blouse
much like April’s grass.
Friday, her favorite sweater,
blue like coastal glass.
I guess the weekends didn’t matter
since she mostly stayed in.
No one would see her—
those days didn’t have a pin.
But Monday thru Friday
written in black
on old wooden clothespins
from the line in the back.
Her secret clasped safe,
her daily reminders were key,
until I opened her closet,
that dismal day in Tennessee.
