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Purple Skirt
June, 2021

Time is escaping like steam from a kettle

or a train passing town back in 1821.

Time is escaping, but I’m not.

We wait. No, that’s not precise

enough, let’s say:  I wait. I wait.


I’m waiting for a new skirt the dressmaker

intends to have ready by Thursday.

It’s a purple and turquoise wraparound,

quite stunning. I’m waiting for an invitation,

a reason to buy new shoes in a matching style.


I’m not awaiting any invitation. No such

gathering of festive friends, modern

coiffures, or blowsy non-styled in-your-face

fallen slack-dyed do’s. Who are all these

people anyway? And why do they stare


at my shoes, with the left foot on its discapacity

platform, while my right foot taps the tune

I cannot dance? Perhaps they’re staring at my

stark white hair, while my turquoise and purple

wraparound skirt slowly unfolding falls.

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