The striped shirt drying
on the patio chair—
you can say he wore
that shirt,
its back covered
his back,
framed him
against the car seat
when we drove
to Jones Beach.
Upright as he walked,
horizontal
where he tossed it
to the sand,
damp when he
dressed again.
You can say you bought
that shirt, it fit,
it looked okay on the boy
who gave it life
before life
left it here on the chair.
His Shirt
John Skoyles
John Skoyles is author, most recently, of Inside Job. He is the poetry editor of Ploughshares. His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, Poetry, and elsewhere.
Featured
What Happened When I Began to Speak Welsh
By learning my family's language, I hoped to join their conversation.
Dan Fox
When Does a Divorce Begin?
Most people think of it as failure. For me it was an achievement.
Anahid Nersessian
You Might Also Like
A Literary Gift in Print
Give a year of The Yale Review—four beautifully printed issues featuring new literature and ideas.
Give a Subscription