I
put on tonight’s attire:
baggy gray sweatpants,
holes in the knees.
I’ve had them since the 7th grade.
I go through the top drawer
and pull out that t-shirt that
you got from the half-marathon
we ran together a few years ago,
and I slip it on,
knowing you’ll have some comment
about how it’s your shirt and how it’s
not your fault that I lost mine.
I walk out into our living room.
The pizza already came
and you’ve already begun eating.
I joke about how rude you are
and how you never would have done that
when we were dating.
But then again,
I probably wouldn’t have
taken the last piece of pizza
or the last can of beer
and belched in your ear
when I was done.
And back then,
you probably wouldn’t have thought
it was cute.