Hey there, internet people. I actually worked the 9 to 5 shift today, so my feet are sobbing and my brain can’t remember what life is like when I’m not putting clothes back where they go, but I still managed to produce poem number 2 today. Let’s get to it, shall we?

Plastic Shoulders

It feels like molestation.
Tired fingers slip beneath fabric,
To caress the black shoulders
Of a hanger that pretends
It’s an upscale mannequin.
Pink shellac glints bright
Under the florescent light.

I tug away clothing, leave
The shoulders bare, exposed
To unforgiving light.
Mock human arms seem to crave
Such bareness.
Their metal hooks snag off-white lace,
As I try to slip new coverings
On plastic skin that dreams
Of refracting discount store sunlight.

Note: This one, I hope, doesn’t take itself all too seriously. But at work we have these awkward thick black hangers that are shaped like disembodied shoulders, and they have little clips at the bottom of them to hold pants and thereby make an “outfit.” Those clips make it darn near impossible to change the clothes on them, but as sportswear coordinator I have to do it all the time. So I got to thinking, “What if these hangers had feelings?” And this poem was born in my head while I struggled with them.

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