Easy Driver

AKA my testosterone smock
Stains so deep they can see no end
Stains so many they can hardly be seen
Wrinkles like gashes and dirt formed shadows
My fingers swim for the end of a sleeve
And I can’t understand
It’s just my dad’s old shift
It fit him so well
Starched rigid
Firmly creased
He grew into it and it grew into him
Now I can’t hear myself through all the sounds in my head
They all tell me exactly what I want
Just call me Tetris
I’ve got the headache
Nothing fits and nothing disappears
Call me Tetris
I can’t close my eyes on it