Shirt 

The back, the yoke, the yardage. 

Lapped seams, The nearly invisible stitches along the collar 

Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians Gossiping over 

tea and noodles on their break Or talking money or politics 

while one fitted This armpiece with its overseam to the band 

Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter, 

The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union, 

The treadle, the bobbin. The code. 

The infamous blaze At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven. 

One hundred and forty-six died in the flames 

On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes— 

The witness in a building across the street 

Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step 

Up to the windowsill, then held her out 

Away from the masonry wall and let her drop. 

And then another. As if he were helping them up 

To enter a streetcar, and not eternity. 

A third before he dropped her put her arms 

Around his neck and kissed him. 

Then he held Her into space, and dropped her. 

Almost at once He stepped to the sill himself, 

his jacket flared And fluttered 

up from his shirt as he came down, 

Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers— 

Like Hart Crane’s Bedlamite, “shrill shirt ballooning.” 

Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly 

Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked 

Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme 

Or a major chord. Prints, plaids, checks, 

Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras.

The clan tartans Invented by mill-owners

inspired by the hoax of Ossian,

To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed

By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor, Bailey, MacMartin.

The kilt, devised for workers

To wear among the dusty clattering looms.

Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader,

The docker, the navvy.

The planter, the picker, the sorter

Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton

As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields:

George Herbert, your descendant is a

Black Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma

And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit

And feel and its clean smell have satisfied

Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality

Down to the buttons of simulated bone,

The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters

Printed in black on neckband and tail.

The shape, The label, the labor, the color, the shade.

The shirt.

- Robert Pinsky

poster

Dear Friends of 100 Thousand Poets for Change,

Love, Geri