Suits arranged like mute clones on chairs,
either swallowing fashion failure
or wishing to boast about tailor
fits. Ties could voice a thousand cares
about the adjustment of knots
but rest pains in Italian silk.
Buttons pose like exquisite dots
in the silence, uncomprehending
to the state of matters. Shirts, white
as a glass full of soya milk,
dream ignorantly under vests.
Wax-rubbed shoes know they aren’t pretending
and hope gaudy socks aren’t in sight,
wants to remind them they are guests.
Wristwatches want to smuggle out
from under sleeves and seduce eyes.
Make-up is confident of its
power but thinks the pierced nose unwise,
the cheek-glitter something to doubt.
Earrings don’t fret, knowing they’re trusted.
Tattoos cower rather than shout.
The handkerchief knows where it sits.
Meanwhile the pictures seem offended
by the turquoise walls. There’s a little
empathy if it could be said.
The air is the reproach of prattle;
this is anticipated, fits
that which is known to be ahead.
John Watts lives in West Sussex and studied English Literature at Kingston University. He is now studying for his MA. He has had work published with the Academy of the Heart and Mind, Friends of Falun Gong, and Homeless Diamonds.
Sparks of Calliope 