SECOND-HAND CLOTHES AND GOOD COFFEE

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.

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