In The Wardrobe (Poetry)

All these shapes that don’t quite fit me —
I wasn’t born for these —
these colours have attached themselves —
grown arms to hold me
but their comfort is a fleeting one —
a brief caress of silk no substitute for life
in a darkened space.

The shop’s bold promise was ephemeral —
the extravagance not meant
to last for more than a season’s dalliance —
strange how the passion ebbs —
the body grows away
and sense can’t fathom
what once was so exciting.

Nostalgia holds these unlikely skins up to the light —
curious that fashion is so fickle with its loves —
so unforgiving in its judgements —
what seemed so stylish once now evokes
a twitching smile — ridiculous — seem like someone
                                else’s clothes —
those high street uniforms and retro sixties shrouds
ageing badly on wire hangers.