I have this bad accidental habit
that I've been building through the years.
I kill my black sweaters.
Every black sweater I have ever liked,
actually, that I have ever had,
has had a tragic ending.

I stuffed one into the nook
between my purse
and my armpit
and it died in the street.
I am certain of it.
And the stranger that picked up
didn't appreciate it.
I am certain of it.
It had two square buttons missing.
And it isn't until now
that I considered how unique
those square buttons are.

I shrunk one.
The cute wrap sweater
with the too long tie.
Shrunk it.
It just wasn't the same.
Garments don't recover.
They don't bounce back
from mistreatment.

I left one on a theater floor.
Perhaps it developed all over
that buttery shoe print film.

Oh, and then another...
give-away-to-thrift-store-pile.
(Accidentally.)

So tonight, I found myself experiencing a
"wow, i'm an adult moment"
when i noticed that my
sparkly beaded edged black cardigan
was missing from the nook
in between my armpit and my purse.
I retraced my footsteps in the cold
and found it in the fortress of my front seat.

Tonight, I will not be attending
a wake
for a black sweater.