The Clothes Horse, Retiring (Poetry)

Who am I really? —
once the posh wrappings are all off
nostalgia’s flouncy pastel ribbons all untied
what of me remains?

Did anyone remember
to take the designer pricetag off
that says REDUCED — OLD STOCK
LAST SEASON’S FINAL CLEARANCE ?

I’m hanging here (you could say) shop-soiled
a dummy in an ever-changing coat
my nakedness beneath no one’s concern
once they’ve had the WIGIG* bargain off my back

Little substance layered loud with style — those flimsy clothes
they wouldn’t be seen dead in
yet paid the likes of me to parade
I never flinched — I galloped round the gaudy ring
but fashion’s had its mad eccentric run —
its all sixties retro now

As old mares go I’ve had my day
they’ll put me out to grass soon enough
draped with a tartan blanket if I’m lucky
against reality — that cruel wind’s dogtooth bite

The gladrags have at last betrayed me
silk and satin have no favourites
synthetics shoulder through
whatever is believed to be in Vogue ...

Look closely now — it’s just a body —
plastic-clothes-horse — not a person
whoever’s in those fading photos you can be sure
                                                                it isn’t me




* ‘When it’s gone, it’s gone’