You haven’t seen me wearing
my new red pants.
In the irregulars section
for ten dollars cheaper I got a
small tear in the left back pocket.
Nothing a little thread won’t fix.
You told me she dreamed of you and her,
I flared red and ripped into
what you call trust,
I call honesty.
I take my thread
but lay it aside
and soak up bubbles in my bathtub
until they touch my mind
to clear it of you
invading her dreams,
giving her reasons.
I will slip into my red pants
forgetting to sew the tear.
This poem was written around the turn of the century.