You had your starburst of
popularity. Fifteen minutes, more or less, bursting from drawers. During 5 p.m.
twilight, you were all I sought. The gray zip-up sweater. The voluminous
snowman hoodie. The deep flannel of the pajama pants. You were the superstars everytime
the wind whipped the gutters loose and snowplows whirred in the sleet.
Now look at you all. Sudden
April balminess eases windows open. The breeze eases over me and I open drawers
and you look like relics. Wool and fleece chafe my fingertips. I need diaphanous
cotton or feather-light linen or something nylon with chlorine-proof lining. I
am done with everything else.
Your time is over and now
you’re just embarrassing yourselves.
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