A GIRL WITHOUT PANTYHOSE

NOW A GIRL WITHOUT PANTYHOSE

Pantyhose PoetryDowntown financial district, women rushing by, nice heels, designer clothes, where the hell are their pantyhose? Why am I blessed by this nightmare of I can’t be professional without nylon, close fitting, constantly picking, forever running, never the right color. I hate them with a dress, I hate them under my clothes, but I am always buying a new pair of pantyhose.

 

I’m done, that’s it, a break-up with Leggs, Hanes, Berkshire, Calvin Klein, and Ms. Spanx herself. Here goes, liberated in my clothes, my toes move freely, I can breathe again, no pantyhose.  Final test, I stand before my long mirror, confused by what I see, is this me?

 

What the hell is that dent under my trousers on my thigh, I cannot lie my ass looks like meringue on a coconut pie. Swirl around hit the ground, I frown, I do not like what I see, Let me regroup, Mom would say how long since your last good poop? Pace the floor, massage the belly, looks like jelly.  I’m nothing but lies and disguise, yet wise to support pantyhose under my clothes.

 

Work day ends, head to happy hour with my friends. Can’t ignore my squished toes, it blows that I chose suck me up pantyhose under my clothes.  I’ll soon forget, another Mind Eraser, followed with whisky and a chaser.

 

I suppose no need to disclose the aggravation beneath my smooth trousers, no one knows.  Another 2 AM it is closing time, a cab call, upstairs crawl, hangover dread, but in my bed.

 

An alarm bell, what the hell, grab some water, there’s my purse, got to be aspirin inside.  Opened wide, all around, upside down, nothing but an empty bc powder pack.  Step back in Michael Kors all wrinkled on the floor, toss a hoodie over my nightie.

 

Purse check, keys check, Sling open my front door, damn you, you Mind Eraser whore. Hangover Satin not today, no jeep in my driveway.  In a cab, I smell like thrown up whisky in an ashtray.

 

Relief in sight as automatic doors must know I had a long night. Rushing straight through, gatorade, aspirin, speed walking down the aisle, shaking my head, this LIFESTYLE.

 

Caught a glance I could not ignore, something dragging behind me on the floor.  Heat is coming from my face, Metallica beating in my brain, leaned over, no words can explain. I tried to pick up one leg of sheer black pantyhose.

 

I squat, I pull and pull damn stretch forever sheer black pantyhose. Oh no, got to stand, excited to feel nylon climbing up my leg. Tip toes, here it goes, passing by my crotch, feet shoulder width apart. Feeling weak and faint, overlooking no need for another yank.

 

In my hand I hold day old pantyhose, but staring at his bloody nose.  Stars, falling back, my day went black, sirens, voices, what is her name?  I can’t move, am I dead, what happened to the self-induced ache in my head. No time to expire, I have a need to inspire a world of NO pantyhose.

 

I sit up in a hospital bed, a Red Rose and a card addressed to Right Turn Clyde.

Was it the alcohol, the pantyhose, or a mystified serendipity collide?

 




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