The Men Who Wear My Clothes

 Sleepless I lay last night and watched the slow 
Procession of the men who wear my clothes: 
First, the grey man with bloodshot eyes and sly 
Gestures miming what he loves and loathes.
 

Next came the cheery knocker-back of pints, 
The beery joker, never far from tears, 
Whose loud and public vanity acquaints 
The careful watcher with his private fears.
 

And then I saw the neat mouthed gentle man 
Defer politely, listen to the lies, 
Smile at the tedious tale and gaze upon 
The little mirrors in the speaker's eyes.
 

The men who wear my clothes walked past my bed 
And all of them looked tired and rather old; 
I felt a chip of ice melt in my blood.
 
Naked I lay last night, and very cold.

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