Café dude, don’t throw napkins on the floor
and then get up and shove more down your pants;
it’s uncouth and unsanitary, or
there’s little hope left in our divine dance:
Now I’m just laughing because people are
a bizarre bunch. I must include myself,
but I surely have never gone that far
as to treat my pants as a papershelf:
Noises, tics, perversions, twisted designs –
most shut them within, or hold them without,
but some, like weeds, exceed the paper’s lines,
waxing strong under sun in lieu of doubt:
There’s much admirable about such a state,
like the awkward thoughts it can generate.