I am not a lucrative person. 
In 1996, at Enterprise City, the kids 
got job titles: banker, business owner, 
marketing director. Me, I was t-shirt maker.  
I stood alone in a closet feeding cotton 
to lasers. What I can’t tell is how  
each of my loves is a reaction to the last:  
daisy-chain of cruelty and false kindness.  
Under my bed I used to keep a Mega Bruiser  
Jumbo Jawbreaker and lick down a layer  
when everyone else was asleep.  
Beneath the chalky splatter-paint coat: 
a planet of color, magic eye inside.  
At work I suit up in my blazer and the guy  
in back slams shut his textbook  
to ask me if I’ve ever heard of T. S. Eliot.  
I like the feel of a t-shirt that swallows.  
I like to hold no one too close.  
Almost yearning, my friend says, raising her wine. 
Finally I decide to get down to the heart.