the closet door complains
a bit as
I strike pose in
the modern-day totem

her shoeboxes
kept
she gives to herself esteem

mine is kept
in the box
the gray one
it has two metal eyelets

souled out
to the company
of women named after
personal traits

a perfect fit, mine
a size seven
-and-a-half
mine wears well
in
the boardroom

yet breathes fuck me
in a familiar harsh whisper

I am but that whisper
in that box
a selection
a provision

she shuts the door
darkness folds its
shroud around
my foolishness

I wait my turn
amongst the
Kenneths and Salvadores
breathing through the eyelets

© Tom Watters  9/24/06