Glasgow had its pipes, and
dance and folk. But it was
by the Panzer and for the casket
that I played, pleating the garments
of the naked who also wear plaid.
Theirs is flannel; a warmth,
as much wardrobe as their unkempt
beards and black
from head-to-toe. Theirs is a eulogy,
mine a mere effigy of “plaid” because
I have a dress code. But in the tartan,
even the thinnest band is discolored.
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