They hang in the closet,
their shoulders fading, all these
clothes I can’t bear to take
to the Second Chance.
The black cocktail dress with the plunging neck
its bodice snug, its open back,
made for a sassy uptown evening
with cosmopolitans and canapes,
and the deep red jacket, more
froth than cloth, artsy and hand stitched,
perfect for Madame Butterfly at The Met.
The silvery coat that fits
like snake skin, just right for
an art opening or a wedding
on yacht in the Mediterranean.
And I can imagine wearing the long
silvery skirt on a beach in France
while the wind gently tugs it
as the sheer fabric gathers the light of the setting sun.
Perhaps I could wear with it the long strands
of pearls that curl into a blue velvet bag in the drawer
keeping company with the blush
I bought five years ago and never put on.
Every day I walk to the same plastic hanger
in the middle of the closet and pull off the same
black cotton dress, somewhat shapeless,
perfect for pulling dandelions in the garden
or going to the grocery store to buy some eggs, or
driving my son to math camp or hiking on Bear Creek Trail.
Every day I choose it, every day, and why not, when it’s
equally well suited for paying the electric bill and washing the breakfast dishes
and dusting the unplayed piano. Just right for waiting on hold
for the insurance company to answer my call
or writing an article about the history of kitchens or
changing the water in the fish tank, or, for that matter,
cleaning the closet as I look again at all those
beautiful clothes, and choose to leave them
for some other woman I used to look like,
let them hang there,
right there where they are.
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