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.