I Apologize to my Shirt

First TIAPOS meeting in awhile last night. Mississippi Motorhead couldn't make it but Sparky did, arriving on her bike. She read about the Real Man who tried unsuccessfully to keep her from walking. We got to see the cover of Chef Pickle's new book. Her name keeps getting bigger on the cover each time they make an edit. Blonde Bombshell saw a seer and this time she maybe believed him. Mush still doesn't like her customers very much and likes their cologne even less. PJ is doing beautiful new photos on a different more textured kind of paper. Plotnik read about Isabella and Brooklyn, of course. And The Great Large Pants had to go to the ER last week. Here is his new poem about it:

I Apologize to My Shirt

Manboobs. Whoever thought? But in the light
of that shaving at the ER, they cannot be denied.

Not yet a B-cup, but pendulous and feminine
not a pec in sight. And so I apologize

to my manly flannel, deserving of a young man's muscle
and plenty of fresh air. Instead, well, I offer

one uncertain heart, prone to bouts of free expression
threatening the body's complex symphony, mixed

with a dose of flop sweat pressed from my life's
simplest acts-writing words on paper, coaxing

my cello to a simple song, speaking to bankers,
grocers, and the occasional medical professional.

you deserve a lumber jack or perhaps a Gary Snyder
distilling the essence of mountain stream

and peaceful campfire into a few little lines flavored
with a tincture of Zen. Fuck it, you get manboobs

and a ride on a big-city bus lurching through
the day, home (one hopes) to only a crazy or two.

a teen with a voice shrill enough to shatter glass,
and one odiferous gentleman with the creepy

malevolent eyes that make you oh so interested
in staring at your own scuffed shoes.

--- Will Walker (The Great Large Pants)