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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.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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