These things. I thought I’d wear them only when I died.
I’ve never been accused of being a social butterfly,
have long practiced self-isolation at parties,
never went to a prom, played keep away successfully,
from women I found out after many years
were actually interested in me, blind idiocy,
but probably wouldn’t be now that I’m old, fat, and pretty much dead.
I look in the mirror, quickly. I don’t like to dwell there.
I still have some hair, although it’s as white as can be,
bleached by that burning Hawaiian sun, cooking me,
my dermatologist detests so, he who always wears a big floppy hat
and long-sleeved shirts, gloves too when he does yard work,
surfs at sunrise, plays golf at sunset, constricted
pale as pale can be, he constantly burns
pre-cancerous spots off of me,
the badges of dishonor, signs of a misspent youth,
boiling myself, mostly alone, all day in the ocean.
Thus I dress me, under duress, in my last long-sleeve shirt and only tie,
given to me from the collection of a friend who died,
these things I thought I’d wear only when I really do shuffle off this mortal coil,
not just dead to women, but to the world in general.
This, for me, a forced fancy dress. Living doll that I am,
I know the passionless potter throws perfect bowls, ad nauseam.
These clothes are a mold to break, the riches of discomfort and disease.
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Happy #WriterMonday : ) Today’s writing prompt is
Use this #WritingPrompt to inspire a piece of writing, even if it’s just a sentence or two, and post what you write as a comment below. I would love to read it : )