The Plumber
Ode to My Yoga Pants
Drastic Measures
By Jennifer Triplett
The Plumber
Just the plumber, he liked to say,
greasy hat atop his head.
He wore coveralls in gray -
different names it said.
Some days Fred, John, Mark, Bill, Jose.
Letting herself look ahead
of who’d be today, playing.
He always had a spread
of tools for the kids to survey.
Her son dressed up like Fred,
And they took a picture that way,
her son with his new friend.
Their apartment was small, but nay
her husband condescending.
Tired after work every day,
his anger would ascend
in fists that came in disarray.
She started pretending,
thinking of how to get away
and to break this old trend.
Before, he had bought her bouquets
and she was young, declared
that he loved her - he’d never stray.
So she joined him, unaware.
The plumber keeps coming, surveys
the bruises, is aware
that he needs to get her away
as she falls in despair.
Today he says it will be okay.
As he starts to prepare,
he rolls up his sleeves, tools displayed.
She says no, won’t let him dare
be affected by her charade.
That night her husband flares
and she falls like a stealth grenade,
eyeing the tool he left there.
Once he’s asleep, she surveyed
the scene and grabs the spare,
lifting it, ready to invade,
bringing it down, no care.
Ode to My Yoga Pants
This is for you, my one constant,
the one who has never let me down,
who fits even when I gain the
COVID-19 - this is to my yoga pants.
We fell in love on a warm spring day,
after spending months on the hunt
for the perfect pair. Some material was
too tight, too shiny, too soft, too stretchy.
Nothing fit just right. But then my best friend
said look no further, I have the answer.
The Lululemon store has a whole wall
dedicated to different colors, sizes, material.
She told me to try the Align Crop 21” – I
grabbed a black pair in my size. The material was
buttery in my hand and stretched and morphed
as I yanked them on in the dressing room.
The waistband reached my belly button
and I gasped, staring in the mirror at this
perfect fitting pair of yoga pants. The nylon
and Lycra combination became a second skin.
From then on, I have lived in these
pants for all activities from working out to
sleeping to watching Netflix on the couch.
These yoga pants have rarely been used for yoga.
Even with a million washings and the start of
piling on my inner thighs, even with a tiny
hole on my right leg, even with any
imperfection, they are perfect to me.
Drastic Measures
She sits hyper aware
that she has come to fix a mark.
So long she has tried not to care,
but last summer he said, with snark
“Did someone hit you there?”
She reached for the dark spot in shock
giving him a cold stare.
The doctor comes in with a knock,
eyeing her in the chair.
Her mind screams to go on a walk,
To get away from there,
her lip starts to sweat as he talks.
Questions hang in the air,
does she want this or will she balk?
She nods, knowing she needs repair.
She can’t afford it, but will fork
over a card with care.
The machine whirls, starts to talk
against her skin with flair.
The pain seers, roving with a squawk,
Out comes the needle, bare.
It looms toward her, she gawks,
last to fix her despair.
She closes eyes against the force,
but is oh so aware
of the poison coursing
through her so she can be fair.
Jennifer Triplett is the daughter of Portuguese and German descent having grown up in the Central Valley of California on an almond farm where she learned how to work hard in the fields beside her parents and two sisters. She currently lives in Torrance, CA with her two daughters, newborn son, and husband where she has a Master’s degree in English: Rhetoric & Composition, a doctorate in Educational Leadership, and is finally pursuing her dream of writing in the Creative Writing program at Mount Saint Mary’s University. She is a college professor of English at Los Angeles Harbor College.