Wardrobe

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Wardrobe


I am a study in false-starts. I have tried

and tried more to keep in separate drawers

my project pants from more projectable  

slacks, but the dividers crumble

till it all slides back in the jumble

like each fresh attempt to save

receipts. I get out my books

and teach with paint on my ass,

take the bread and wine with caulk

smeared down my left leg. When I reach 

into my pocket for a pen I find

a Philips head and the clink of

a few, loose words. Screw it

again. I am a walking project.  


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