The Fifteen-Year-Old Considers His Closet
By Tarik Dobbs
How badly I wanted to be prettied
in the back seat of some taxied
sedan with my black lipstick twisted
out—maybe, my smile Vaselined
like my khalti always said,
on your teeth, always use the name brand—
these images dreamed in my mirrored
gaze of a high school men’s restroom, relieved
when I realized the crushed soda cans turned
urinal cakes would outlive all the friends who snorted
our shared Ritalin collection and,
certainly, outlive me, and thank God.
My love will outlive me.
