It takes place in the '90s because it's
called, "You in Palazzo Pants."
Do you remember palazzo pants?
Raise your hand if you remember palazzo pants.
They're going to come back, so get ready.
The skinny jean, it's out.
We really have to-- we have to liberate the legs.
Palazzo pants lets the air in.
So, this is "You and Palazzo Pants."
So this is-- the "you" is in her 20s.
You agree to meet him in one of those cafes
you imagined yourself writing in if you could
afford to live in that city.
He was also a writer, but older, and you wanted
to know how to get published.
Slip a picture of yourself in with your poems, he advised.
As in, toss your shiny coin into the fountain, heads or tails,
before it tarnishes.
You didn't tell him of the internship you once had,
in which the only thing that stood
between the slush pile and the top editor
was you in palazzo pants.
And that the top editor, your boss,
was a tall ash-blond woman who thought your Post-it notes
on manuscripts brilliant.
You didn't tell him this because you have only
thought of it now, because at the time,
you probably flirted like a knee that
responds to a little hammer.
When you told your therapist about a hand that slid down
your back as you fixed sentences, she asked, well,
were you at least flattered?
And in both cases, yes.
But, like a bouquet of flowers, it's
hard to know what to say when it arrives on your desk
without a card.
The other secretaries expect you to be excited.
They hover around your desk clucking,
we never get anything.
We're so jealous.
Still, the water will soon turn murky and the flowers stink.
And you are left with the burden of taking the whole thing out
of the building.
Now, when you imagine your own poems arriving
with a picture of yourself back then,
you want to write a note in curvy pink.
Tell them how beautiful they are, how worthy of an audience.