I Become a Wardrobe
When I can’t sleep.
I rise up in the dark
ordinary as a polite notice
that says Back Soon,
full of the unseen-until-worn
and I stare at the ceiling
with peplum-flaring thoughts.
My limed-oak sides still
want to move like ribs
with the ache
with the sobs
with the grief
of keeping the freshly
laundered and pressed
hung in order of colour
on velvet hangers
ready for morning
when I choose
what to wear.
I long for spring
when I will seize emerald
to blend in
with day-old beech leaves
for holding
between finger and thumb
ever so tenderly.