First Job

The black leather got scuffed
Before they ever walked into church.
Tossed under the sofa after a long day
Beached by the door with
The footprinted flipflops
That I haven't worn for months, now...

Once my legs were made of denim,
Once the callus between my toes was
an evolutionary adaptation
for when Darwin and I sprawled on the palm tree quad,
smoking and flipping through McLuhan and Mulvey.
How did I get caught up in this
Closed-toe, one-inch business?

The black leather needed polish
Before anyone got married or dead.
Resting in peace in four tiny closets
They moved with me, spotless, each August.
Like a trout with a Harley
Like a lesbian with a pregnancy test
Not exactly unwelcome, but?
Now heels clacking on the dried-pee subway tile
Follow me every day
At first I gripped the handrail and giggled,
Trying to tell
Who were the interns,
pretending that form-fitting khakis and cargo pants
are office clothes
Who were the real policy wonks,
with wrinkled faces and professional-pressed suits
And who was like me,
closets funded by graduation gifts.
When did this stop being a game of dress-up?

I want to
zip up a pair of jeans with holes in the knees
slip on three-year-old sneakers and mismatched socks
go down to the Greenbelt reststop,
take a piss
and laugh at the senators tappin' below the stall
because they're bored
like me
and they're ruining their $500 Italian penny loafers
in the cold grimy puddles on the floor.