Your Clothes Can't Swim, But You Can

 I want to steal your clothes,

or whatever Can't Swim said

in that one song of theirs they sing.

I want to sneak around the sofa 

you're sleeping on and

sniff the soaked-in-sweat sundress

you just shimmied out of.

The smell,

I imagine,

would be sinfully sweet.

Your body is secondary;

giving life only to the shapes 

of your salacious subjects.

The satisfaction gained from a

stylish set is only seasonal.

Small social success,

then a swift siege.

Stranded at sea.

You might be able to swim,

but your clothes can't.