Dress Up

by carmenmariamandley

There are a lists of requests

which might sway the unseasoned–

the tireless cautionary ones– from

quick approach

the thought of dress up, the tick of a impatient dream clock

caesarean  ambition, jazz records, the evening wake and walk.

surges of disquisitive early-morning play.

 

perhaps it would be the penumbras

that lovingly sit in the most hazel portions

of each eye that would glance in each several moment.

 

Each has a story one must be willing to weather.

 

(Caveat: I’m far more enticed by being quieted by yours.)

Tell me your stories when I wear your clothes

and call you pretty

and take tasteless pictures of sunsets

while we swim in Gin.

Tell me on a Sunday, and don’t wish me any paler.

Wish me sunk in the sight of you.

 

There is room.

Of that, now, I am sure.