My arms enter the wide cotton hole at the bottom then separately exit each smaller cotton hole toward the top, with the crown of my head in hot pursuit through a hole of medium size in the center
(this is probably a bit cute but of course the holes are not *of* cotton but defined by, circumscribed by cotton)
So now I find that my chest has been covered. My chest is now thoroughly sheathed and prepared, is the finding. (I have no thought at all for the Back or its sheathing, though I’m certain it, too, has been covered and prepared.)
Now I’m smoothing the shirt out and recalling the Greek word for Back actually means “behind the chest.” (Thersites was struck “behind the chest” by Odysseus, was why I knew that Old Greek word — which caused a tear to well in the eye of Thersites and a bloody welt to arise from his back.
I do not yet today have any such welt on my back, I reflect. MAGA is something like Thersites, I next consider — ugly, thumbing its nose at authority.)
Now I’m still smoothing the whole thing out, quite sheathed, front and back, and prepared:
I am a person in his shirt, feeling sheathed; I am a person observing his prepared abdomen and chest; I am a person assessing that, as of this moment, his shirt has been sufficiently smoothed.
.i`` * ^ / . . . . . ` `~ 