Why I Dress

“Wow, you write poetry, like Robert Frost!” my friend said, forcing my faint face turned into an over-ripe tomato. “Oh, you must be kidding me!’ replied I. Perhaps, you mean holding a pen, like him. What’s his name again? Robert Frost? But I still not mastered the perceptible gloss of twisting it, ‘tween my fingers. I couldn’t even perfect hanging wet souls, nor did I have the ability to put them back on a closet of loneliness, where their shadows rest, temporarily. At 41, I still collect them and put to wash. There’s no stopping now though, I once emptied a can of coke on myself by accident, as I picked salted sticks, ala McDonald’s, to satisfy my stomach. My wife laughed, thinking that…you know what I mean? I may not be of Frost, but the un-bashing type of comment gave me strength to flaunt my thought on a narra table, buffet style, for who ever wants to taste my soul can do so. Ah, my heart’s young and willing-- to dress a naked word to make her splendiferous.