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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507863" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Shirt</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams,<br>The nearly invisible stitches along the collar<br>Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break<br>Or talking money or politics while one fitted<br>This armpiece with its overseam to the band</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter,<br>The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union,<br>The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven.<br>One hundred and forty-six died in the flames<br>On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes--</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The witness in a building across the street<br>Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step<br>Up to the windowsill, then held her out</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Away from the masonry wall and let her drop.<br>And then another. As if he were helping them up<br>To enter a streetcar, and not eternity.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A third before he dropped her put her arms<br>Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held<br>Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He stepped up to the sill himself, his jacket flared<br>And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down,<br>Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers--</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Like Hart Crane's Bedlamite, &quot;shrill shirt ballooning.&quot;<br>Wonderful how the patern matches perfectly<br>Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme<br>Or a major chord. Prints, plaids, checks,<br>Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian,<br>To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed<br>By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers<br>to wear among the dusty clattering looms.<br>Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter<br>Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton<br>As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">George Herbert, your descendant is a Black<br>Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma<br>And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And feel and its clean smell have satisfied<br>both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality<br>Down to the buttons of simulated bone,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters<br>Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape,<br>The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Pinsky">Robert Pinsky</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507863" data-title="Shirt de Robert Pinsky" data-description="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..."></div>
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