If I could write poems
as often as I shit my pants
I’d like to think
that I’d probably be too busy
to shit my pants anymore.
But then again
the whole thought experiment blows up
if I didn’t shit my pants
with alarming regularity
so maybe it’s for the best
that’s it’s all theoretical.
I don’t shit my pants,
like, at all.

Well, I mean I have.
Long ago,
in the past
in the distant history
of last Thursday
when Rusty Dave’s chili
proved not quite as binding
as had been promised.
It so happened
that the product looked pretty much the same
both before and after.

I wasn’t able to salvage the jeans from that evening
but I’ll always have the memories
– and if I had a memory
for every time I shat my pants
– wait.

Never mind,
I do.