The Suit

Owner’s dead,
the op shop lady said.
Didn’t plan on it,
I’m guessing;
the suit’s almost new.

Probably didn’t imagine
he would live forever,
just didn’t expect it
to happen so soon,
what with a new suit and all.

A wedding? A funeral?
A conference?
Something worth
a suit anyway.

Not this though,
stuffed into
black plastic
and dumped.

He’s gone.
I’m in his suit.
Fits pretty good too.
Looks fine.
It’s wool.
It’ll last forever.

Paul Turley of Adelaide was born in Wales, mostly raised in Adelaide, and is now living here again after some years in other places. He is currently studying for a Master of Philosophy degree through the Department of English and Creative Writing at the University of Adelaide.

Readers’ original and unpublished poems of up to 40 lines can be emailed, with postal address, to [email protected]. Submissions should be in the body of the email, not as attachments. A poetry book will be awarded to each accepted contributor.