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In the dream, I'm in a second hand-clothing store,
wandering among endless racks of dress shirts and
classy suits. Dust motes float in the dim light.
I notice a small room lit by a single overhead
lamp. It contains but a single rack of elegant robes,
each in vivid colors with fancy lapels, threads
that James Bond might wear while seducing one of
his many women.
I reach for a plaid robe with bright red lapels.
Suddenly, I’m awake, anxious, in my moonlit
bedroom.
At first I’m disoriented, but not so disoriented
that I don’t know exactly what the dream portends.
I glance at the hook on which my old robe hangs.
Relief! Still there. If robe years are like dog
years, it's older than me.
I can see the large patches where I've had a tailor
salvage it after it grew some very large holes in
the wrong places.
"Do you want exactly the same kind and color
of cloth," I remember the tailor asking in
an incredulous voice.
"No," I had said, "it's just a robe.
Do your best."
Having had it patched doesn't relieve my present
anxiety that it may one day disappear. When my wife
looks at it, I see the rag basket in her eyes. When
it falls to the floor, my dog sleeps on it.
Men reading this know that the robe and I won’t
soon be parted. It's comfortable and unpretentious.
Besides, my life isn't a Bond film. No one, besides
my wife, cares whether a little flesh is hanging
out here and there. And who else would see me as
I stump around in it?
I pull the comforter over my head and drift back
to sleep.
lucky moon ~
even when waning no one
threatens to replace you
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