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.