Last updated on April 17, 2020
Note from the author:
This poem, Wardrobe, was originally published on 8th April. This is an improved version of the original, containing the addition of two new stanzas. My heart goes out to Felix S, thanks to whom this poem would not be what it is now.
Folded in stacks,
hanging on wires
rolled up socks
into shapes like tires.
Stiff and lonely
yet fully coloured
bright pastels
left abandoned,
deep blacks
like drawing pencils
or a blunt axe.
But despair no more!
For life is breathed in
to these clothes once more;
when they’re worn
they’re no longer forlorn.
Their colours radiate
as if newly born;
their beauty’s innate.
A shirt, dull grey hanging
One hand in, sleeve now plump, no longer sagging
almost resurrecting, making proud Jesus’ father.
As you wear it, a shining pearl of white
a knight’s armour in all its might
ready for a day in the office; oh, the bother.
At five, taken off, replaced by a tee
thrown in bag, a sprint to the metro.
Home, all you needed to see
the pile of clothes in the washing bin: that’s now retro
taken off, that shirt is again like stone
lifeless with no single colour tone.
The trousers, jumpers, ties in there;
in the wardrobe, stored neatly, ready to wear.
Simply left hanging on these hooks,
waiting for the pretty ladies’ furtive looks.
Whose lives’d be more exciting if they were
not spending all of them waiting for monsieur.
Be First to Comment