The line’s grown long
again. I’ve counted six pairs
of black, work shoes.
Every person has nice
shoes. For some reason
people insist on sweatshirts.
I’d like a Sunday hat,
to wear to church, though I
don’t go to church.
Perhaps the church should advertise
hats, as a selling point.
Being unfreckled, I wish freckles
were my problem. Two paper
cups across a table might say
to each other, I know
what it’s like to be empty, too.
The noise is constant, several
conversations congregate in the recesses
of the room like a flock of reed-voiced
birds discussing politics,
cynically. Interviewers have taken
over an entire half
of a café. At some point I’ll stop
staring at the pastries behind glass,
glazed as if freshly made,
rather than a day-old remainder.
The line has gotten longer.
A girl’s shirt reads
Game on, but I don’t
know what she means exactly.
Pre-gaming implies one needs
inebriation to enjoy padded
body jousting. What do you
say to the man with two
llamas fucking on his shirt?
Uncle Sam is on a button
on the man’s backpack and he’s angry
about the man’s wardrobe selection.
What Not to Wear—
founding father edition.
Sir, your ideals don’t
match your party colors.
Never pair flippancy with neoliberalism.
He should try a cooler palette.
Melcontents 