all the button-up shirts in my closet without me

when i go to work they sway together
& talk about my body. even fabric 
is capable of conspiracy.
they say, "stomach" & "waist." say
"hair" & "chest."
i install a surveillance camera
& then i install 
eight more. all angles.
what else can one do to keep track
of his items? the shirts frolic
in a circle. they make a may poll 
of a broom. i should sweep the house
& look for teeth. they are always
dropping from the ceiling. the shirts 
are wild i know 
& i should teach them more manners 
but if they run away 
what will i be left with?
a dress will never wrong you
the way a button-up shirt will
but who would i be without them. 
sometimes my shirts go 
& let other people wear them.
i will see a nieghbor with the blue polka dots 
or in the grocery store i will pass
my blue & orange floral shirt on a stranger.
shirts can wink, you know?
the first men's shirt i bought
was pink & white. it winked at me
everytime i went to target until
i finally caved in & bought it.
the truth is, we don't actually choose
what we wear. at least, i don't.
the clothing is forceful.
a tie around my neck. a watch 
strapping my to the bedpost.
a shoe lace coiled around my finger.
these items are making
a human of me. their seams 
form my own personal crease. 
my pockets are full of gravel.
a paper napkin dabs the tears 
from my face. the shirts love me
despite their infidelity.
who am i to keep them
from more intimacy? spare buttons 
are always popping up in my palms.
i keep them in a jar like 
blinking olives. who is going
to salt my tongue when my fingers 
turn to single threads?
i wear the button-up shirt
wirh triangles parading across & across.
often, i feel like less of a gender
& more of a pattern. everything can go back
to the geometric. is she a cylinder
or a rhombus? i am a tringle today
but yesterday i was 
a parallelagram. when i leave for work
i decide to be cruel & lock the closet door.
my shirts will conspire inside.