Who tore a hole in my seersucker robe?
Not sure—who, or how—since, one day, it just
declared itself. Might've been Kevin
who, this morning, I woke to find inky
handed, misusing my vintage stone bowl.
Stamped his blackened roach into the basin,
and said Good morning! as if nothing unsavory
whatsoever was being savored. I went out.
Shopping. Picked up three ashtrays in three distinct styles;
faux green depression glass, porcelain with floral detail,
and opaque, black plastic, all chipped to bits—
Still, serviceable. I placed each one conspicuously,
analyzing if all of this could still yield the same result.
For a moment, I considered that perhaps it was a tragedy
in the rinse cycle that ripped the fabric, but no.
I get it dry cleaned. After all, I bought it in Shibuya,
on a block crammed with boutiques named
for American cities—Chicago, New York City,
Santa Monica. Took four times around to decide that
a robe could, potentially, with the right accessories,
become a spring jacket, a beautiful belted gown.
Most people would pass up an opportunity
to spend 10,000 Yen on a bathrobe. But not me.
Without it, I'd never attract someone interesting.
Rich. Never move to the Hamptons, lounge
with my Vodka martini, read Ayn Rand
and get fucked.