put a dress on

the federales
are at the door
and I smell like
a brewery.
they know I'm here
but we play the game --
they knock
I turn down the stereo
and eventually
the knocking stops
just in time
for the migraine
to kick in.
as the saying goes
you are a sight for sore eyes
-- and mine are bloodshot.
you smile
and ask
where we're eating tonight
knowing my sorry condition
but wearing
that sleek black dress --
the one we bought together
promising not
to tell your mom.
I shower
and shave
and brush my teeth
a thousand times
and saunter past
the federales
my arm around you
while they hide their eyes
and dream
of the next
covert operation
and that sleek black dress.

Paul David Mena
21 August, 1996
Acton, MA

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