I become thin, don 7 jeans for stares in the club.
I speed past trees down backroads,
“Freek-A-Leek” growls a litany of ladies,
and then, wavy rainbows of Felix da Housecat
pulsates, sunroof open to my hair in the wind.

What I am sharing with you could be nothing,
frivolous as Annie’s “Chewing Gum.”
Will it get better than this? as I pull into
Stony Point Fashion Park, to walk on stone
in flip flops, to slink past reflections
feline in windows. I waste my min wage pay

on a blue button down from Hugo Boss.
Perhaps seduced by models on monitors
walking lit-up catwalks. The cashier flirts,
folds my shirt soft into tissue to nest
in a crisp, silver-black paper bag.

I am in the twilight of elation after you left.
I crave carelessness, but with such care
did he fold that shirt. I will long outgrow
this sustained elation, self-tanner stains
on collar. I will go back to pay my respects

to the long-shuttered stores, no longer
paying much for shirts or attention,
or my reflection, or to thoughts of us,
entwined bodies.

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Image: “Screen Texture” by Alex J. Tunney