I keep sneaking furtive glances
at the clock
as if to ask permission
to keep the lists at bay
a little longer,
make a little more room
for this seductive pastime,
the disrobing of me.
It is not all silk
in these layers,
first the smokey coveralls,
the camouflage of bulky toque,
the clothes that came as gifts
from prior closets
and I inherited
or received without asking.
Some of these dresses
feel like my own skin
and come off slowly,
craning to catch in the mirror
out of the corner of my eye
where the clasp is,
stretching into unfamiliar postures,
wiggling it off.
Yes, there is ego here
adding musk to the room
but I can’t see any other path to freedom
than to dive through her
and find out
who is calling.