Nice Pants
Maurice Oliver

Cranes dot the skyline between guitar solos.

A pair of discarded tennis shoes litter
the vacant lot. Nobody’s really sure,
but blue plaid underwear could mean it’s
Monday. Anyway, you can never have too
many clothes. The billboard warns,
"relocate abroad or go under.” Does
anyone have a video camera? The ant on
my ankle is huge. My socks were definitely
bought on a trip to Madrid but who can say
for sure if the spot on my pants is really
mustard from France. It could be. All I
know is that steam irons work best and the
“N” in pants belongs there. When I’m done,
I’ll become my own lunch special and eat
vowels at will while Rod Stewart blasts from
the boombox. But for now, the twenty dollar
load of laundry washes away any definition
of me. So I’ll sit where I always do, in
the orange plastic chair near the dryers,
watching a street of trees, where the
thinner branches all wave back.

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