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,
and the deep red jacket, more froth than cloth,
artsy and hand stitched, something to wear
on stage or to an art opening.
The silvery coat that fits like snake skin,
and the long silk skirt just right for a beach
that I’ve never been to in France.
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 eggs,
for driving my son to math camp or hiking in Bear Creek.
Every day I choose that same black dress, every day, and why not,
when it’s equally well suited for paying bills
and washing breakfast dishes and dusting the unplayed piano.
Just right for waiting on hold for the insurance company
or writing an article about the history of kitchens or
changing the water in the fish tank, or, for that matter,
for cleaning the closet as I look again at all those beautiful clothes
and choose to keep them, let them hang right where they are,
a testament to some other woman I used to be. Huh, she was younger,
but you know, I almost look like her.