The Pharisee in Me

Last night I donned my whitest sweater—

What better way to show the mud she’d fling at me?

So finely frilled, not pilled, merino—

My cuddly, coddling sweater, ever fresh, stain free.

But later on I sought a mirror …

And found a guilty face, enlightened eyes cast down.

That muck she’d slung? It’s camouflaged, for

My whitest sweater is a grungy, goatish brown.