no h8 shirt

 

No Kitteh, noooooo

Mine. Mine. Mine. All mine. 

About 30 grams of carbs. 

A wee bit of gluten. 

Flatbreads are ok now and then. 

Came home last night. 

This shirt was growing legs

And was being abducted. 

It was on its way to a pool party. 

But without me. 

I queried 

“What is my shirt doing there?”

And my answer was “YOUR shirt?”

Yes. MY shirt. 2014. 

Limited Edition. 

THEY/ THEM

“CAn yO U shOw mE a rECiePt?

DO yOu hAVe a pIcTUrE oF

yOu wEaRiNg thE sHIrT?”

ME: 

Yes. Here the NOH8 conference 

I attended. It was a small fortune 

For professional grade pictures. 

Were YOU at NOH8? 

Did you attend? 

ME:

No. No you didn’t. 

Do you even know where 

you got that shirt?

Besides from my room? 

Housemate:

No. I can’t even remember. 

I don’t know how I got it. 

Or where. Huh. 

The day at the photo shop. 

And the framed picture. 

I took out every shirt to find it. 

Can’t prove it isn’t there. 

Can’t prove a negative. 

Still reeling from the last night. 

He shrugged and said 

“Oh tAKE thE ShIrT!”

Parked so hard in the bushes,

My parking light came off. 

Snagged by some bushes. 

Then, I went to the Clinic

To pick up the papers I left last week. 

They lost them. 

With no back up copies. 

Every form. Gone. 

Hours of data. 

None. No back up. 

Pull out the Sad Trombone.