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.

© MARGARET ADKINS - MARGARETADKINS.CO.UK

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