The Order of the Purple Shirt

 

I was measured by an assistant tailor in the dappled sunlight,
In the fashionable menswear store, upon a momentous noon:
And I wore the plum and russet shirt into the carnal room,
The lilac, mauve cotton stuck to my skin, taut and tense and white,
Wet with sweat and with lipstick from the chick last night.
It was a shame those weren't in one, too, no matter whom,
Not knowing them personally, straight into a convenience-catacomb.
Even without me, it was a powerful, manic-depressive fight!
I pleaded with them to stop, for the sake of the Redeemer's purity;
How exaggerated in emergency was the general behaviour and a stance,
Legs straddled wide apart, as if on a ship at sea and the gravity
Too much, fists clenched, material deeply creased in remembrance,
Not of loving mediation between Christ and man in perfect parity,
No, but of the perverse aphrodisiac of identity crisis and chance.