LATER LIFE

for MH

Her fingers are fussing the big, green

button that holds her cardigan.

Taking pills to remember her stockings.

Getting dressed each morning

to sit in her chair. Her velvet mauve

slippers. A white crocheted shawl.

The television is silent as a wall.

Two raised stripes show she has worn

two bras, but no other underwear.

The clock fingers race and whirr,

eager to have the day done. The world

spins an axis about that chair.

The old–style bulbs fizz and stir.
It seems one is about to burst,
threatening with lengthening flickers.

Dark. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Light. Dark.

HUDSON UP TREND

I knew the Paris lines before they melted

onto models on the catwalk; furs, feathers,

leathers, synthetics, moulded round the tit

and cock. Models walking to me like a cocked

pistol. I was doing sketches of the patterns,

looking for codes on the front row; Anna Wintour

knew the crack, VOGUE! Her Chihuahua 

was a bitch in Louis Vuitton, always biting!

Somewhere among the waiting staff, a spy,

a glass of champagne and cyanide.

I report back on the future of fashion;

buttoned to the left, trousers worn knee-high,

sartorial semaphore, scuffed shoes.