I planned to wear this shirt,
blue, black, and white stripes,
collar and pocket,
that my philosophy professor,
while I applied for a job
as a research assistant,
said made me look rich.
“I'm not rich,” I said.
She was skeptical
beyond the Socratic sense.
I saw my reflection
on the television
as a Chinese man taught viewers
how to grill pineapples.
I do not fit in it anymore.
I stretch it. Still no.
After you came to visit, my father said:
“I wish you looked like your friend.”
He flexed his arm. A sixty-year-old man
who tries to avoid death with desperation.
My body is stubbornly Euclidean.
Its inside is just as big as its outside.
I am filled with all kinds of junk.
I have a tendency to touch things
with my mouth first of all.
I've seen people whose dimensions
depict an inside that does not exist.
I am wearing the shirt anyway.
It won't make any difference.
Yep.
You are right. Absolutely right. It won't make any difference. I know. I'm sure it won't. Pretty sure, anyway. *
nicely developed.
You had me at "stubbornly Euclidean." Nice poem.