For You

My pink-striped un-ironed shirt,
buttoned, ruffled collar, creases
some deep, some light
remind me of a network of canals
dug above and beneath a Martian landscape.
My sleeves rolled up
with pockets of space
that I wish I could sketch
with chunky black vine charcoal.
My trembling, iron-skillet fingers
undo the sleeves, unbutton
my shirt and one breaks, and falls.
A gaping hole in the middle
that no masterful tucking can hide.
With a needle between your index and thumb
and ivory thread in another,
with four strokes and a knot,
I walk with a beaming smile.

                                 - M. M.