A Moment With My Cupboard.
Thursday
noon, without a siesta,
Ticked off prominently on a
nailed calendar, for
assortment.
I stack up my
wardrobe,
Not post –modern
any more,
my laundered, folded,
pounded clothes,
hands go by
for festive, casual, cool
and
summer, Winter
and worn-out,
Varnished aroma
on the exterior
Vies with the
hot permeating,
The colored
and white
Join hands in giggling,
We are crushed, still,
The pride of
morrow’s function,
Your promenade, your path.
You are white collared,
Pick up your collar, yet
Nearer to failure, if
Cant mix with your make.
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