the olive-coloured pant tells all.
even Justin Bieber can’t refute a rebuke
to this single truth
although you might catch him being proud –
especially the times when Hailey is around.
Those Baldwins are known to run afoul.
every nerve, every tendon –
enough visual information
to make a guy think he’s got you pegged.
a lighter-hued pant makes us less well-behaved
in public
while we stare at everything below the waist
that we can save for later in your wake
of our own partner’s haste.
she doesn’t have any hips
and she doesn’t have an ass –
though she hides what she has under two-size-too-big sweatpants;
her voice is shrill and argumentative
and she doesn’t have any tits,
but she’s only 18,
so she’s just right for me.
she has no experience on matters of life and death,
and when you ask her how she feels,
her expression is bereft –
she only knows enough just to skirt on the fringes
of friendships contingent on how they look:
you know about Thrasher magazine. that’s a bonus.
now maybe you could reward yourself with a donut.
when you look at me,
what do you see?
a man aware?
who’s stopped and stares –
whose world is incomplete
without the memory of a face so sweet?
isn’t that the kindest flattery you could receive?
like the loser in the train in that James Blunt song
that everybody danced to at Prom
except me?
that’s what i believed
