the clean shirt

as you iron
and starch
your shirt late
into the evening
you stare
down at your
name in red
thread, scrolled
and embroidered
across the pocket.
you remember
reading once
that if your name
was on a building
you were
considered rich,
and if it
was on your
desk you were
middle class,
but if your name
was on your shirt,
well, you were
deemed poor. so
be it. it's a clean
shirt.