Pickup Poem Day 11

Matching Tracksuit

O muse of nylon! O rustle

and crack of the static

when two of a kind kiss.

This is the warm-up uniform

of teams straining to hear

the success America is whispering

in someone else's ear. Put

together. Two-piece suit, paired

with the requisite gold chain, heavy

symbol optional, and trainers

for crime or tennis as need

arises. Nobody can call my comfort

an accident. Even the long stripes

align like runners' lanes: shoulder

to wrist to hip to shin. When I squat,

triumphant, the lines cleave, exactly

how they did when God broke apart

the first of us, at the rib, hopeful

and underdressed.