Cockle-Shell

Okay, asshole.
Yeah, you there, with the corduroy jacket with elbow patches, jeans and that cockle-shell bracelet your worldly yet grounded wife gave you for your birthday.
Yeah, you, what the hell are you trying to prove? Drinkin' coffee while you're walkin' like that, with your mid-range leather teacher's satchel and high level of approachability with your young adult student body.
What's up with that definitive jawline and complete lack of bourgeois pretense that makes you a favorite of mousy debate club captains and shaggy retro stoners alike?
How about that time you wore a Nirvana t-shirt to class and hinted at your experimentation with hallucinogenic mushrooms during the FIRST ever Warped Tour concert? Just who the hell do you think you are?
Some sort of hip, early-thirties Ivy rockstar that has to pretend like he doesn't hear the twenty-odd pairs of ovaries pounding in tandem during one of your relaxed lectures? And we both know that they crest just as you push your casual, unbuttoned shirtsleeves up to your elbow.

Don't tell me you don't fuck your wife with that. I don't believe you for a second. And I've asked you out for coffee before. So many versions of you.



© Sara Gaddis 2010