Poetry: Fitting | clivejames.com
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Traditionally, men will sit nearby in leather seats
or, in cheaper boutiques, on office surplus chairs.
Maybe flipping through Men’s Health or FHM
while wives and girlfriends try things on, with dutiful assistants
pinning hems or sighing Saturday girls clattering hangers
back on racks, snarling with rolling eyes that “There’s a queue.”
But I pick my angle through the door of the changing room
to watch your naked feet rehearse the dance of sliding in and out
of pants and dresses, shoes and blouses, garments slipping up and down
with now and then a little show-and-tell as you yank the curtain,
reveal with a frown a tightly-waisted purple gown
then back again to just the feet, the turning ankles, balancing acts,
as you crane your neck to see how this or that looks from the back
and even if these things are chosen more with him in mind than me,
I’m held by your displays in proud and silent ecstasies.