[185 words]
They say every man breaks somewhere.
Mine was the dressing room at Target.
The mirror told the truth—
but only in riddles:
You look fine
You look like you’re trying to look fine
You are not fine
The Levi’s were 501s,
because that’s what the cool waiters wore
in Paris—or was it Lisbon—
or that dream I keep having
where someone calls me babe
and means it.
I pulled them on
and thought about how many men
have performed their sanity
in the denim aisle.
A good fit.
A bad fit.
A small salvation.
The tag said mid-rise.
I’ve never known
how high a man is meant to rise.
Outside, someone coughed
like a shotgun.
Some kid screamed
for Paw Patrol cereal.
Some woman was telling her partner
to stop pretending
he didn’t hear her.
I stood still in the jeans—
like if I didn’t move
the sadness couldn’t find me.
The pants fit.
I bought them.
I wore them home.
And waited for someone
to tell me I looked
like I belonged to this world.
No one ever did.
Not that day.
Not yet.
Joshua Walker is an independent poet whose work blends formal craft with raw emotional intensity. His poems have appeared in Potomac Review, SoFloPoJo, Solarpunk, and numerous other literary journals. With over 310,000 followers across social media, Joshua’s voice bridges traditional and contemporary poetics, weaving sharp imagery with musicality and wit. He explores themes of resilience, identity, and human complexity, always attuned to the tension between line and sentence.
