My newest shoes are twelve years old—
once they counted; I've lost count—
much younger than my youngest tie
that's hanging on the plastic mount
I screwed into my closet door
when I still had my screws
(but they've come loose and most are gone,
perhaps still on the floor).

Suitcoat or two (one might be new),
still hanging, weren't on my purview
at work for my last job or two
or three or four (that count lost, too),
at least a decade or a few.

More than a dozen pairs of socks,
most black knee-highs, some shorter stocks,
are in my drawer; I wear them more
than any bling long tucked away
within the small green metal tray
in my top drawer, closed long before
our move to Arizona.

Since our move here (retirement near)
although I worked another year—
in fact, sixteen or so (I know,
we lost that count, too, long ago)
I bought white socks, those ankle-highs
(same color as my shins and thighs)
for my Southwest persona,

my legs so white they shine at night
(a moment's pause to prep the rhyme;
poetic license, not a crime)
they have their own corona—
one reason why some other guy
(who wooed her in the course of time,
a course she found far more sublime)
now has my Desdemona.

But, at last, we reached our goal,
my bones and heart and very soul
and all that haberdashery
(excluding hats, bowties, and spats
for which I never gave a rat's)
Retired! Swooning to that tune,
a sound far brighter than the moon
who's fullest orb helps them absorb
the joy of lovers when they spoon
(meanwhile, I'm searching for a rhyme
for "dashery" that's in the clime
or universe of this terse verse—
now long past ad- and getting worse—
without success, which leaves a mess
which I can't end without redress,
so, hesitating, here I sit,
still writing on the wall.
I'll quit.)

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