Compression capris

The women in my neighborhood all wear compression capris.
Their thighs are homogenized in black.
They march independently of one another up and down the street
with dogs, with sunglasses, with tethers to music.

They walk past briskly, slowly, trudging, speeding and I keep wondering,
what else with these women is molded and smoothed and carefully crafted 
even as it trembles against physics, and wants to explode?
What else gasps for air in that thin layer between reality and suffocation?

Maybe thoughts of the guy at work who tells fat girl jokes.
Maybe worries about GMOs and world peace and gun control.
Maybe wanton thoughts about Ryan Gosling.
Maybe wanton thoughts about his girlfriend.

And so I buy my own compression capris and I wear them as I walk.
But the pair I squeeze into, the pair that make me sweat and stretch,
the pair that hides my truths and flaws, the pair on sale for fifty percent off —
This pair I bought… is blue. 

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