Crumbling Rubber

I sort through piles of clothes
shirts that I wore at my desk at work
the desk where I spent hours managing
and drinking coffee.
The shirts were once white,
but drift into other faded shades
maybe token gay shades in the office
because nobody would ever bring up the subject
except me.

The bedroom piles are disappearing.
It's like an achaeological dig full
of dirt, dust, crumbling rubber,
and spent elastic.
Old papers mixed in clothes, some dead, some saved.
The saved get bundled for Purple Heart.

I cannot do this for very long, because it unnerves me.
Sorting these clothes digs up memories,
Reminds me that I'm cast off too.
Sorting my life,
Discarding my crumbling rubber,
Living out my Purple Heart.