sifting through
my word-drobe
for the zillionth time,
I can’t find the cover I
keep there.
Donning sweater
I scratch–
clement climate precluding
comfort,
and holy as the blanket is
(I grab next)
it lacks the character
such wear is said to impart, still
detailed enough
to obscure my lines,
&
it’s better to be cold
in such instances
–skirt I try
after
fails to wrap it up,
my but’s too big, I suppose, and oh!
It’s all out-moded!
Ill-suited.
Ripped where rips aren’t trendy,
and bedazzled when simplicity
is key. . .
Too matched,
too klatsched,
&
altogether
tutu
utterly uttered
(case in pointe)
My nudity
frightens me even so
I sift
. . .
Through thousands
of old favorites
. . .
finding absolutely nothing
to wear.
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