Corduroy, but a little Novocaine, too 

I have new pants and I look real good in them.

Wide wale corduroy, the raw material from Portugal, 

yellow and warm as Van Gogh’s haystacks, imported, 

then expertly tailored all night by someone in New York City 

… but allow me to get back to the point.  

I’m at the dentist. Half the dental staff is crammed in here

by my chair at this moment watching my examination,

my mouth wide open, all their dental equipment down my throat

and Tesuque Novaro, my hygienist for the evening, 

calls for an x-ray which scatters the staff. 

Moments later, the staff and my jaw back in place,

one look at the x-rays on the computer and they all gasp; 

one of them, safe behind a mask, asks—“My man, how old are you? 

What happened, where you been? You have many holes in your head!”

They have me strapped down but I stretch my legs out way long. 

Oh but … says Tesuque. 

Oh what?  … I ask. But I know.

“You look so good in your pants,” she says.

“Your warm, Van Gogh haystack-yellow, 

wide wale corduroy pants. Oh, mi corazón!”  

The staff observes my legs, agrees, and so do I.

The chief dentist, Dr. Arturo Ipanema, walks in 

and doesn’t even have to look at the x-rays to say: 

There are no holes in his pants or his confidence. 

He only has to look at me.