Brown Pantsuit

a poem on resisting the working world, the business of avoiding business...

On the back-rack there's a brown pantsuit with a
flask in the pocket. get back. An empty spinning
tie rack. get back. I'm afraid I don't own
a little black dress. I confess. I'm weak, I'd say

There's a coffee shop down on the corner
where they don't care if you're on track, pay
your rent on time, 'cause the cream is real,
mini-pitchers with big-breasted curves.

I'd theme and theory me into dark corners,
get dressed in my resumé for the fashion show
at nine. Shove the hanger and yell--get back!
I don't own you. Let me show you how young I am.