I'm having a clothing crisis
and the only thing that matches
is my bad hair days
I'd like to go out naked, not as
the seductress, but to make
selection simpler
I choose statements from hangers
don democratic garb
a blouse that says I feed the homeless
a bra that screams for national health coverage
a pair of socks for the masses
I'm all the places I've been clad
all the clothes I've worn out
all the outfits appropriate for the occasion
gymsuits and 7th Grade garter belts
bell bottoms and peace sign shirts
checks that don't match stripes
and plaids that do
this season
Confusion cuts my greying curls
which don't exactly go with
spandex bike shorts which
don't go with flab-filled thighs
which don't go with that skirt
either
my age of woman doesn't
skin knees or schoolgirl smile
or polka dot big red bow
(at least not at work)
my age of woman is not standing
in the shop window dummy
dumb and premolded plastic svelte
my age of woman is not Now Appearing
in Cosmo Glamour pages
nor is my shape
I'm having a clothing crisis
that bares my middleaging midriff
lengthens my skirts and unhighs
my heels
I can't tell when it's faded or fashion
or when it's backwards
or which side gets the lapels or labels
or how long the slip should be before it shows
the racks are filled with silk
swatches that I don't know how
to button and colorful coordinates
sewn for someone else
I have black days and blue days
and sometimes fuscia, which
might have been hot pink had I
not kept with the Fashions of
the Times
I'm having a clothing crisis
and I don't know how this hat
sits on my head and stays
but when I can predict
whether the weather will
dictate prevailing winds
I'll grab the right jacket
zip up the coat snaps
run out my front door
leap off the porch steps
and float
changed lovely
like some falling leaf