Destroyed Vintage

Sam Pierstorff

This is not a poem about Abercrombie & Fitch
because if it were, the edges of this paper
would be torn and yellowed, each corner
perfectly ripped away as if to say,
Cool poems don’t need clean sheets of paper.

If this were a poem about Abercrombie & Fitch,
it would fade and shrink after one wash.
And of course, it would cost you $98.00 to read—
not unlike the pair of “Destroyed Vintage” jeans
currently kissing the toned white ass
of a mannequin in our town’s mall.

Each pant leg has been run through a paper shredder;
grape juice scars the pockets like Rorshach tests,
and on each thigh there are holes the size of nickels—
carved by children in El Salvador who made less than that,
so the privileged in our country can finally look poor.

If this were a poem about Abercrombie & Fitch,
it would be in their catalog, shrink-wrapped.
It would be skinnier, blonder, and riding naked
on the back of an elephant with three boys
who look starved or recently molested.

It would be typed out on a red T-shirt and worn across
the chest of a thousand fraternity boys. A number 8 or 35
would adorn the back because every shirt is a jersey
and every day is a game when your parents buy the tickets.

If this were a poem about Abercrombie & Fitch,
I wouldn’t buy it. I wouldn’t sell it. I would burn it
because no one should decide if it’s finally
a good night to look bad.