I put on some music to time myself, drank tea for the nerves.
“This song and the next one and then I’ll go”, went the thought.
And I did as I do and got dressed.
Tied two laces made in China, turned the pants’ legs (just from the back)
so I wouldn’t step on them all the damn time.

Armani sells style, not comfort – and that’s a fact written down
on the silk sash round my neck, running down the chest
and making small talk with you – loudest in the room.

A turn of steel and leather on my wrist – cogs in a machine
that will never stop,
that will endure 500 ft of salt water, darkness and doubt
so I’ll always know I have those few minutes
(few minutes more or few minutes less)
of time to roll up the sleeves and decide they looked better rolled down.

I don’t iron my boxer briefs (since I have not, you know, completely lost the plot).
I just wear ‘em and wear ‘em well. And I mismatch my socks
because that’s how I’ll always have something to talk about,
because it makes me laugh a little more,
because fuck the rules.