An ungrammatical name
for a lingerie store,
my waiting manikin poses
in the soft-backed seat.
My set eyes, clouded
hollow as a cue ball,
pocket distant daydreams
in a lacy broguish land.
Plastic nipples arrow pupils
with pubescent curlicue
petals; they float softly
over my expressionless face.
Slivers of silk separate buttocks,
strapless bras threaten exposure,
and the fleshy purchasers
press breasts, slap cheeks.
Wooden doors hide pleasures.
Her feet hover in the slip
below, and time trickles
as knickers flicker to floors.
Store hands tape measures
then fizzle, dissolving
as a vacant vessel stare
attends to my time,
my final restless scene
that of shopping bags
bound to boyfriends' feet,
our bums bolted to seats.
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