I don’t often write poetry, but when I do it’s usually silly. This poem is no exception. This is in honor of the coldish weather we may or may not be getting tonight.
Ode to Sweats
Some days I wake up
if I’m lucky
and rise to meet the cool, brilliant light
of another winter morning,
blinding me.
Staggering, squinting, staring
into the mirror.
I know
today was made for sweats
and a hat.
My sweatshirt.
Big, purple, forgiving
Gained ten pounds or lost twenty-five.
Bra? Deodorant?
No one knows but me
and God, but he saves
his eye for the sparrow,
not my underwire and armpits.
My sweatpants
or Hubcap’s.
Neither of us can tell anymore.
My hat,
stained with sweat, smoke, grease
of a hundred camping trips.
It used to be green.
I put it all on
and stand there.
Comfortable.
