state of confusion

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state of confusion
A dark green corduroy in August heat
with pockets full of crying cubes in case
it gets too hot. I squelch my sweating feet 
in smart-wool socks, then split my covered toes
through flip-flop thongs—it’s like cutting frozen butter
with a plastic fork. Ear muffs fit
quite well beneath the visor that I wear 
as if I’m headed to the coast, and it 
is bound to turn the roving eye when I slurp
my peach martini from ski-gloved hands.
    
I once 
 jumbled up my brother’s Rubix cube 
to make him mad, but it had only helped
him solve it somehow.
If I can twist myself
enough, perhaps my knots will untangle themselves.


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