Walt Whitman's Shirtsleeve

I am never buttoned.
My off-white cotton is too thick for cocktail parties,
and usually hangs in loose ruffles about his wrist.
But I am not a static portrait;
we are far too full to be a statue.
Rolled-up, I embrace the commanding curve of his bicep.
At full length, I kiss the supple curves of his lovers.
Pressed firmly at the small of her back,
caressing the cotton of her magenta dress,
we waltz endlessly to the cattle's low.
The olfactory impact of her lavender perfume might intoxicate,
were we not also bathed in this barn's dry scent of straw.
We dance out under weeping willows,
canopies of stars and wood.
Her violet fabric twirling billows
wider than I ever could.
But I too cannot be encompassed,
like da-Vinci's prostrate man.
An infinite undying fortress,
smaller than a grain of sand.
But those days now bygone fancy,
years that passed are half a score.
Now an age where all men can see
what the bayonet is for.
I hear them pray into the darkness,
what to do when friends 'come wraith?
Echoes back with frigid fullness,
guide thy hand with steadfast
indifference.
I heed their prayers.
Why fear the coming
metamorphosis?
Though the warp and weave in
tatters, I yearn not for
reattachment.
Now, I'm
serenaded everyday
with unbelievable
percussion.
Leave disenchantment to
dead poets and
the future.
I am brimming with rubies.
I embrace
the flood.