There's a chair there, beside the change room

It looks just like an ancient heirloom,
But it gives me, some small respite, of release
The taupe carpet here is comforting,
The Muzak, sterile and unthreatening
The vinyl tiles, provide a pattern to relief
As I sit there, amongst the racket
Like tired old men in smoking jackets,
Ill-fit toupees and half-filled cognac dreams,
I am reminded of Alfred Prufrock’s parlor life
Although, he never lived to a have wife,
Never a wife, nor any other, precious things
From the secrets of the change rooms,
Women come and go with their glooms
Gasping in frustration for what does or doesn’t show
But the Mannequins are absolute perfection
Smooth and perfect in their erection
Like the statues of the great, Michelangelo

While the hangers clang in rattled protest
As they scrape both to and fro in behest
To the whims and wiles of scarlet letter dreams
There are no more fitted garments
"One fits none!", they cry and lament
They weep for imperfections fit for none

© Christopher Raine