Look at you
You blue jean hoarding
Insomnia suffering
daughter of a missile
crisis and a hand grenade,
you’ve got a closet full of jeans you
can’t even wear;
most don’t fit you anymore
they squeeze your thighs like
boa constrictors, vice grips
face it, the missile
crisis would say, you’re thin,
but you’re not that thin,
not like those skinny girls you dance with
some jeans you can’t stand anymore
as they fall far from the ground
much like your shortcomings
You need another pair of blue jeans
Like you need another overly dramatic philosophy of life
From some delusional schmuck
who thinks the knowledge
of the world fell
smack-dab into their laps.
So forget the jeans with the
grotesque embroidery
and forget about the jeans
you bought because they looked
great on someone else,
but they make you look and feel like
a week-old Italian sausage
in the sun,
and who really cares
about the jeans
that you were convinced
for several months were
heaven sent,
Those pants have done
nothing more for you than
“The Whites did the Indians,”
hand grenade daddy might
say. So send them all to goodwill, says
the gremlin that lives in your laundry basket.
You need room for all the
peace of mind you’ll be stashin’,
Give ‘em to your friends,
Give ‘em to your enemies,
But, whatever you do,
Avoid the temptation
To gather them all up
And burn them down to
ashes in your backyard
much like your
Weird old blue black
Grandfather’s
Cuban cigar,
But the legality of the issue
might do you far better
than those wicked things.