it would have been easy to deny
everything, forget those words
meant to keep one alive, provide
a safe passage, should the truth
one day happen to go on sale

the thought that it might be stolen,
together with a hanger and a security tag,
the latter found later smashed on the floor,
has never been entertained, thus the story
to be told was simply written off

Who pays then, once an arm and a leg
are gone, and the record has to be
balanced out with one-legged memory,
Who tries to sell a one-sleeved reconciliation
to stock his warehouse with a new merchandise

O, I know I have used the wrong words,
worn hand-me-down history with many pockets
that supposedly still had magic gadgets,
but I always pulled out crumpled labels
with a fading message: dry clean only