By Warren Woessner
I'm going through the rack
of men's trousers
in the musty basement
alongside a tall, skinny guy
I don't want to look at
twice, but he starts to talk:
"Everything in here's a 42
or XX large. Some fat guy
musta died last week."
Just then, I find a nice pair
of corduroys - 36 waist
too long, but I have a friend
who can hem.
I don't try them on, just pay
the $3 and get out.
I know I won't care who
I'm wearing on the white carpet
of snow already unrolling
under all those cold stars.
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