An Old Blouse

Smother me in its polyester
shade—its sickly bright colors
getting stuck in my eyes yet again, coating
my nostrils in a perceived citric tang.

 

 

 

Far too flashy; far too lively!
And the way it now hangs
from me… hospice-chic on my frail bones,
in a sense. An old lady stares at it intently,
its significance only an hour in her
peripheral… Sworn up and down that
I stole it from her granddaughter for
another hour after.

 

 

 

She forgets. I forget that I wore this
in the 70s, with sepia, with bellbottoms,
with damned buxom craze.
Yes. Far too lively, I’m afraid. Maybe rip it
to shreds? Maybe tie it up in a festive
noose with each
tattered zoo of a sleeve?
Maybe gift it back to me in an
Alzheimer daze so I can bitch about its
pungent look again?

 

 

 

Can I button it back up
while listening to the Moody Blues
again?

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