Togs

Every age is a nursery for afterthoughts. I am a wardrobe for naked shelves, naked hips and joints, naked space. Behind me old clothes slung on a chair, nylon clouds, woolen hills all only partly filled, partly lived in. I call them ‘togs.’ my togs once used to dance around gyrating girls on floors that gleamed shiny as new spun silk, but that was when togs were a statement of a younger, more fake me. Now my togs are wrap arounds and comforting, or just a little too tight to accompany me to the green shod park where the wind flounced trees swirl in their summer dresses, both full-figured and slender. Arboreal moments like this help me ponder on what afterthought to wear tomorrow.