Garb
Her clothes have left her.
They have crossed the floor,
riding a camel train of shadows.
Tights have twisted to fleshy mounds.
A bra gawps twice, spine bent.
Shoes topple over drunken heels.
A black dress climbs a black chair.
A vision of him closing the door
behind parting words.
She roams the apartment,
picks up strays
gathering together
whatever yesterday wore,
not wanting those things
to follow her into dawn.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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