Scaffolding The Revenant by Billy Collins
I am the beloved white converse,
you bought to match all your petty friends,
come back from the garbage to tell you:
I never fit you — not one bit.
When you forced me onto your wide heels,
I thought of placing blisters on each one.
When I watched you primp before floor length mirrors,
I wanted to bust every stitch of my seams.
I resented the way you danced,
tacky flailing of limbs,
the way you would wouldn’t wear socks,
a basement of grime, scuffs on my once pearly lips.
I would have run away,
but I was broken in, crunched beneath your footprints
while I was taught to walk pigeoned toed,
and — greatest of insults — how to Dougie.
I admit the sight of Brooklyn
would excite me
but only because it meant I was about
to be near converse worn without flannel.
You do not want to believe this,
but I have no reason to lie.
I hated campus, the leggings,
disliked your friends and, worse, your boyfriend.
The sound of girls screeching pop covers drove me mad.
You always wore me in all the wrong places.
All I ever wanted from you
was one Panic! at the Disco concert.
While you strut, I watched you pose
as the fake you are.
It took all my strength
not to throw myself at the punk skinny jean teens.
Now I am free of the booty shorts,
the overflowing closet, monogrammed Starbucks cup,
the absurdity of frat house croquet,
and that is all you need to know about this state
except what you supposed
and are glad it did not happen sooner —
that everyone grows up and gets jobs,
stuffs wide heels into loafers, pinching into profession.