Suddenly all our costumes
are in the wash,
which means we
stand here
in our dirty underwear
holding the Sunday funnies
just below the stomach line,
a situation that makes
it impossible to
make a speech
or lecture the house plants
on how tall they should grow,
crooning baby talk to a cat
that will ignore you
or sit on your keyboard
because what you’re writing
is jive anyway,
none of us
will open a toolbox
and remove the pliers,
without costumes
our cars
will not roar
with the attitude
Detroit promised
as we sped up the interstate ,
our language feels corrupted,
false, hollowed of verve,
I want my costume now
though it reeks,
we wear our costumes
as long as
we can get away
with it,
our armor
achieves a genuine scent of grease
and soapless months,
our costumes
and our postures
start to stink so bad
that fire alarms
go off in apartment buildings
across the street,
traffic lights shut down
at critical intersections,
diners lose
their appetites
in cabins in
distant mountain towns,
but yes,
clean clothes, clean slate,
a fresh aroma of detergent
and warmth comes off
the fabrics,
everything fits like a
tailored pair of gloves,
nattily dressed,
elegantly coifed,
perfumed
and flexing biceps
for no one
in particular,
we stop feeling
ridiculous
and plan our
patrol of the city
we call our own,
but first,
this fellow
will take a nap
when the last
pair of pants are hung
and the clock reads
2PM on any hour
It happen to be.
.
Ted Burke
.