Seven suits

Seven tailored suits, matching shoes and socks,
a brace of muted ties with subtle breast pocket
handkerchiefs descried, you wouldn’t credit how
badly they governed you in days gone by.

And the shirts, the cuffed and collared shirts with
collars wide and elegant, the colours understated
with a deference to foppish sense that’s better
suited to excuse a crass excess than daily use.

Or commonsense. And you kept them all,
vacuum-packed in plastic sleeves stored in
back of cupboards or on dismal shelves
far out of view to gather timeless dust.

That you never wear them even now and then
must strike a chord – if there’s a chord to
resonate when struck, or bleed a mote of seasoned
doubt or starts a keen debate about the waste of space.

But you are a snake, an old and elegant example
of the code of haute couture who kept the skins he
shuffled off across the years and never grew
beyond the loss, kept them all to long endure.

It matters not they’d never fit today, you might lose
some weight, a chance of fate, the fashion’s never dead
and what a hit you’d surely make in matching shoes and
shirt and tie immaculate with tailored suit.

It won’t occur, the time is passed as has the place
to wear these clothes, it would be better to dispose
of them in decent taste than keep them all, hope they’ll
find a better home at Saint Vincent de Paul.
© I.D. Carswell