I made the connection to her pants

Barely clutching her cardboard stitching –

The cigarillos got bent and dry

No longer smokable

“It’s the frame of my pocket

Once tight, once fresh 

Tailored for one gold miner.”

I tried to smile but lost it

Remembering what her Father Strauss said:

She’s all-American to the cloth,

And underneath she’s the best

I can afford to touch.

Late in the evening of the same day

Her label, her manufacturer came round  

Showing his washed-out denim rear,

 He went for the third time’s the charmer.

Despite her independent establishment for nearly 18 years

she remains – a flow-blown catalogue –

(the every shade mute-blue you can imagine)  

that no one has taken time to read – let only skim -

But me, “the what she needs now” tag, the fraying boyfriend

I’ll keep reading the in-between-sales in her Sunday Issues

Trying my best to be patient and understanding.

Day 2 with her:

When we went outside yesterday

To the backseat of my Toyota

To see if I could get into her jeans

To see if I could fit

(You know, to test the flexibility)

I realized something –

Turns out she’s not my size,

Not even the right style

I wear the straight-legged

But her jeans so awkwardly sewn

Made mockery of my manhood –

That I feel I’m stealing acorns in tights

Every time we sleep together.

I cannot do this

I cannot undo her

The dark slip-ups of her father

Will

Always

Be there.