Yesterday, riding the train downtown, I thought to myself: You should
have worn the boots today, done something with your hair,
taken the prettier coat, maybe, or put on pants that better express a mood
of professional aplomb. I realized, bobbling in the underground car
next to tight-jawed man squinting at headlines on his handheld,
that I spend so little time and fuss feigning much of a maturity,
grabbing limp shoes bunched in the foyer or the first shirt felled
from a slippery hanger. The women in their slimming suits have me
by a mile. No matter. I prefer some ruffle to my feather.
Inside, the world still keeps itself together.