Friday, February 6, 2009

brown foolishness

it occurred to me today,
one year plus one-half of a year later--
thanks to a pointed memory
connecting with a random thought of summer--
it occurred to me:
why in the hell did i care about whether my shorts were too short?

that is, when i met your grandmother, in her house,
the house you claimed you were moving out of.
we were going to the movies
and i was worried that my brown shorts and black top
were too girlish; too adolescent for me to be wearing when meeting her.
granted, we had only been fucking for a couple of weeks
when i did meet her,
but the fact remains, you couldn't see anything but the back of my legs
beneath the place where the hem of my itty-bitty brown shorts stopped,
the same legs you would see in any other pair of shorts,
so why did i care?

instead of caring about how an almost-pushing-forty
supposed great catch
was taking me to a movie
he picked, at a time he picked, at a theatre he picked,
i cared about my shorts.
maybe i was secretly praying
they wouldn't unveil my body's wanting for you;
the fact that while your grandmother slept,
we fucked on doomed sheets.

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