Like symbols they hang
What do they say of me?
The oversized flannelette that I wrap myself in to sleep,
the tangled bra straps that point to my fading sexuality,
the plain cotton that hints at sense and,
a little sensibility –
but not sensuality.
Tea-towels trail traces of sloppy cookery attempts.
A man’s handkerchief:
a fluey reminder of a cold week.
Would an observer
…or merely busy and preoccupied…
The wind collects a scarf edge,
wraps hand-woven silk around metal wire,
taking away the only whimsical item that may hint at
the young vibrant woman whispering softly to my soul.
I avert my eyes from this madness.
take time I cannot spare.
I shake faded jeans and tangled tights
with more vigour than necessary
and throw a faded towel
over the washer,
before retuning to the kitchen to drag dishes
from the bowels of yet another machine.