have a nice fit
for the fitting room,
mother-daughter treatise.
fashion is a facade
for the hollow.

nothing more than threads
will do,
in the right hue.
on the right cue
you can make a statement,
so they say,
pink is the new black,
black is the new
black and blue.
try on a shoe
and walk all over me
some more.

i’m just a hanger on a pile
of turned-out clothes.
i’ve seen you around plenty,
but never in a book store.
they’re printed
with the wrong kind of ink,
i guess.

can i interest you in a fraction
of my stress?
what’s the threshold
in the suburbs?