ode to the cardigan {a poem}

Oh, cardigan—
you, most flexible of clothing pieces—
you make me feel like a blend of

Laura Petrie
{Oh, Rob-ing my way through a dance
in a poofy, twirling skirt,
entertaining the troops with the USO}

Sandy in Grease
{before, of course, she casts off her
goody-two-shoes so that she can squeeze into those shape-shifting
black leather pants}

a girl version of Mr. Rogers
{without, I should point out,
the puppets and
the little train set}

an Anthropologie ad
{photographed, I would hope,
in a house built by a Rockefeller
or a Vanderbilt on the rugged, rocky coast of New England}

Or, you, my dear cardigan—
in cream or black
with pearls or costume jewelry
buttoned-up or loose
with jeans or a pencil skirt—

you, my dear cardigan,
make me feel like just plain me:
A girl with options and layers.