Sonnet: Flannel

I have this flannel that I wear,

Old, torn, and frayed, brown patches

Cover both elbows where usage wore holes

In the fabric. Initially, my grandfather would bear

The flannel, leaving it as he began his katabasis.

Often, I wonder if he can see into this world.

The holes in the material unfurled,

Allowing the viewing of my protasis.

A silent witness to the sins of the son,

A dead man’s tale, lived anew.

Mistakes unfolding again in view,

Wishing for what’s done undone.

But a dead man’s tale ends in death,

And the sins of the father, in sons, are breath.