the hangers screech as you move
them across the silver rod
in the thrift store we’re in. there’s
a hum of some song neither of us
know and the low whisper of the
teenagers in the next aisle,
i’m not sure if the gray plaid
really fits with the vibe i’m
going for, and a snap of my gum
but you keep moving the pair of jeans
B A C K A N D F O R T H
like looking at someone else’s ugly
burgundy corduroys will make
your decision any easier.
i will never be your
one-phone-call-in-a-jail-cell
or four-drinks-in-and-you’re-
lonely sort of friend. but there
is silent understanding in pushing
a cart down a warehouse full of
other people’s clothes
the hanger screeches again and you
pull the jeans out. you say i think
i’m just going to try them on and i say
it could never hurt.
Inklings Literary Magazine 