The Bathrobe

One rack in the men’s shop contains richly coloured robes with fancy lapels, threads a James Bond might wear while romancing one of his many women. I reach for bold red and gold plaid with shiny black lapels.
Suddenly awake, anxious, I glance at the hook on which my robe hangs. Relief! Still there.
There are large patches where I've had my seamstress salvage it after large holes grew in the wrong places.
“Robes aren't that expensive. Why not just buy a new one?” my seamstress, a very practical woman, had suggested.
“No,” I replied, “I like this robe.”
“Do you want exactly the same kind and colour of cloth?”
“It’s just a robe. Do your best.”
Having had it patched didn’t relieve my fears. When my wife looks at it, I see the rag basket in her eyes. When it falls to the floor, the dog happily sleeps on it.
Men reading this know that the robe and I won’t soon be parted. No one else sees it and only my wife is concerned about a little flesh hanging out here and there.
I pull the comforter over my head and drift back to sleep.

lucky moon –
even when waning
no one threatens to replace you