You wore your
sweatpants backwards
after the original seat
ceased to be soft

the seam bulged out
in front of you and
you didn’t give a shit.

Wearing a T-shirt,
pony-tail, and
black fingernails,
your hands leaking
art onto canvas,
onto paper, onto cloth,

you were always making.

I watched the sweatpants
turn into skirts, the pony-tail
turn into a short, chic cut,
watched you turn into
a green and gol’d
bohemian beauty.

It’s been years, and
despite your departure
from the sweatpants

I’m sure

you still don’t really give a shit.

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