I vow to wear
only American products.

So, I slip off
my winter jacket
made in Malaysia,
unbutton my shirt
sewn in Bangladesh,
undo the buckle
of pants stitched
by Chinese children,
kick off my Guatemalan boots,
step out of my underwear,
inspected, I remember,
by number 19,
who may or may not
have been in Cambodia.

Standing naked in my socks
of unknown origin,
I realize nameless others
need me as much
as I need them.