once there was a boy.
the boy wore jeans:
black, a little faded,
with fraying cuffs and a bike chain hanging off his hip
that his mother secretly tried to torch
every time her little angel fell asleep in his big devil bed.
the jeans fit him perfectly (a little too perfectly) and
his mother secretly suspected her little angel in his big devil bed was a big bad faggot
but since she was a nice mother she didn’t say anything,
and one day the boy and his jeans were at the dinner table
with the mother and her fears and she leaned forward
and she said why do you never take those jeans off?
he blinked for a second.
oh, he said, you mean these (here he indicated the jeans) and she nodded
so he stood and unzipped them, and she threw up her hands
no she cried no, don’t do that not at the table!
but he said here, ma.
and he set a piece of paper in her hand
and she opened it and read “dear mom: these were the jeans i was wearing
the last time we said i love you
i’ll wear them until we say it again
i’ll be waiting”