So you’re a slave to fashion.
That term is not innocuous.
Most likely it’s a slave who makes
the fashion that adorns us,
toiling in some sweatshop in
conditions that are far from just.
From the fashion police to the
fashionista to a red carpet bust,
we’re more concerned with a wardrobe
malfunction than with curbing our lust.
Perhaps if the roles were reversed
and the king became the knave,
we would finally fully comprehend
what it means to be a fashion slave.
I did not found the town
but I want to take up permanent residence there
rather than just be a tourist
funneled there via some
though it seems every road into this particular burrough is
That’s how the town got its name.
The struggle to get there makes for hardy residents who though
not the prettiest or wealthiest or most talented in the world
sure don’t give up easily during
I’d buy a home on the outskirts
and then once I’d been
there awhile I’d get me a place downtown over a storefront
where I’d have a cafe for townfolk to drop by to eat and talk and
help each other
I am still too attached to the mocking past.
Strangers laugh and I wonder if they are laughing at me as they pass.
Suddenly I am the awkward boy again, worried the outer mantle of me has somehow worn thin.
Yet I do not wish to be a man with a crocodile skin.