This cupboard keeps sartorial stories
that have little to do with fashion.
From recent eras to decades past,
my style could be called “confused”.
At times I like to play dress-up
but I’ve always hated stores,
so retailed clothes are hard to find
in the fabrics that pattern my life.
Clothes swap, yard sale, op-shop finds,
and cast-offs from family and friends
hang with oceans of protesting T-shirts,
earned over years of campaigns,
many stained with paint,
which I cannot throw away.
I like to wear colours that match
with the shades inside my head.
Even party attire from nineties markets
occasionally leaves the house.
It’s hard to discard the memories,
though I have my Kondo moments.
Most threads are bare before I can bear
to surrender them up to the rag bin.
Stereotypes don’t quite work for me,
but my dress is an expression
and this wardrobe makes me smile.
