Dressing up

You sent me a beautiful scarf of soft wool,

so I wore it, looked at it

in the mirror and liked myself a little.

So I sent you a scarf, a thin little thing

of wispy yellow silk, and also, as a flourish,

a pair of thick gloves, as your hands were cold

and I wanted you to know

that I listened, and cared, about your hands.

 

Soon enough, a parcel from you.

Wrapped in tissue paper, a scarf, some gloves

and a green shirt with pearl buttons.

Laughing with pleasure, I wrapped up matches,

each of your gifts with one the same

and added a pair of sturdy leather boots with shiny toes.

Expensive, this game.

 

I wore all your gifts at once and waited,

standing by windows, checking

the doormat more often than reason allows.

I talked to you though you could not hear me.

I imagined you striding along in the boots I bought you,

feeling loved.

 

I tried to guess the next, but I got it wrong.

I was thinking of dresses or perhaps a skirt,

but underneath the scarves gloves boots shirts

was a glossy coat of rich brown fur, purring

with pleasure at its own absurdity.

 

That time I had to sell the television.

 

Though over-dressed

I assembled my responses with delight

but also with dread. Which would be worse?

To be bankrupt and beaten, forced

To abstain?

Or be stuck with making last moves again,

sunken swaddled in a thick skin of love,

Waiting waiting for the post to come?

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