by Mark Hendrickson

Today is red-shirt day.  Although I had to correct
the woman who mistook me for a sales associate,
I did so kindly and we both laughed
and walked away feeling not-too-bad about ourselves,
which is how I usually feel in my red shirt.  “That was a nice man,”
she must have thought, continuing her search for the large zippy bags.
Riding my bike I sweated but no one could tell.  It may be true
that I stank a little, but that could have been
someone else.  My used-to-be favorite shirt
is too tight now.  I don’t think I’ve gotten
fatter, but my tastes have changed.
Now I prefer comfort, like my
quite comfortable red shirt (see above).
One shirt I have says “Mr. Happy.” I purchased it for one dollar which
did make me happy, and then on the bus a man told his daughter,
“Look, honey, his shirt is like your balloon!”
Since then I’ve learned not to wear it too often.
People began calling me “Mr. Happy,”
which on days when I was depressed
became painful.  I used to wear it on days when I needed
a boost, hard days.  Sometimes it worked, but when it didn’t
it was painful not just for me but for everyone who saw me,
which was everyone in the universe.

*Photo courtesy Iban.