I am not a lucrative person.
In 1996, at Enterprise City, the kids
got job titles: banker, business owner,
marketing director. Me, I was t-shirt maker.
I stood alone in a closet feeding cotton
to lasers. What I can’t tell is how
each of my loves is a reaction to the last:
daisy-chain of cruelty and false kindness.
Under my bed I used to keep a Mega Bruiser
Jumbo Jawbreaker and lick down a layer
when everyone else was asleep.
Beneath the chalky splatter-paint coat:
a planet of color, magic eye inside.
At work I suit up in my blazer and the guy
in back slams shut his textbook
to ask me if I’ve ever heard of T. S. Eliot.
I like the feel of a t-shirt that swallows.
I like to hold no one too close.
Almost yearning, my friend says, raising her wine.
Finally I decide to get down to the heart.