In the halter top, the cheer curls, repeating the word
for the warmth of the sun in winter. How is it that
I haven’t done a thing here,
never really met such a mini-mall.
Why not stop driving in circles
and park up close, keep driving. Don’t call this world
a boil. Don’t forget my earliest mirrors were boxy
mirrors of fitting rooms, new release
movie posters at the video store
one store over, wishing whatever
creature would uppercut through glass to touch my face.
Even the waitresses wear miniskirts that match
the tablecloths, but I’m busy behind
the food court, the Fuddruckers,
blowing for blue heavens, grass, often
the good horse, and inside those threaded museums,
they call me the mooncalf. Gigglesome, they say,
that’s not a way to live. Did you
have as much fun as I did—I try on
everything. Always remember
to put each cardigan back on the hanger, only the zippers,
buttons, missing now, dizzy in the front pocket of my dukes.
Here is my hand again, stroking
the midline of each pressed sweater,
the primrose, the mint, the sour green
of how good it must feel to hang like that
in the air like a joke that ends with getting dressed.
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