Poem eleven

I like this shirt. I don't want to stop wearing this shirt. I want to go on wearing this shirt. I dislike the smell of the armpits of this shirt. I remove and prepare to clean this shirt. I start hot water, unscrew the detergent, procure a cloth, and commence scrubbing this shirt. I scrub only the armpits of this shirt. I neglect the other, cleaner parts of this shirt. I don't see a need to scrub the perfectly undirty parts of this shirt. I don't wish to completely drench this shirt. I plan at the nearest possible convenience to continue wearing this shirt. I admire the modest blue and beige pattern of this shirt. I go on dates wearing this shirt. I go to work and class wearing this shirt. I sit alone watching unsentimental art house films in this shirt. I avoid speculation as to healthiness of my fixation and resigned indifference to this shirt. I slide over rings on the shower curtain rod so to hang this shirt. I grow impatient and set up the iron and ironing board for this shirt. I turn on the iron and think about the town where I bought this shirt. I remember the person I was with when I bought this shirt. I imagine the store, the aisles, the rack where I found this shirt. I also bought a sweater, three books, and new-looking tennis bag when I bought this shirt. I think of the first time I wore this shirt. I took someone to dinner, someone other than the someone who was there when I bought this shirt. I felt certain and good in this shirt. I went for a walk on the beach after dinner in this shirt. I  buried my feet, kicked waves, did a cartwheel in this shirt. I feel the hot iron and press it against the wet parts of this shirt. I smell the fresh heated cotton rising from this shirt. I iron the dry, wrinkled parts of this shirt. I take extra care around the sleeve-seams, try not to leave creases or folds, flaunting the flatness of this shirt. I stroke for buttons recently come loose on this shirt. I search for lint and paper detritus in the chest pocket of this shirt. I press with my hands, feel the dry warm armpits of this shirt. I lift this shirt. I pinch the collar, flip open the one sleeve then the other, sliding both arms into this shirt. I pull the collar so it hangs even around my neck. I button each button. I open my pants, tuck it in. I sit at the table, hands flat. This shirt is so aware of its wornness I don't remember how it fits.