You resemble a 3d image straight of the cover of the new look catalogue.
Killer boots elevating your ego,
that symbolic clinking across the tiles with an air of ownership two steps behind the tail of your coat trailing the dream.
Your blank stare searches the shop for someone, you need someone, anyone, to scream your name in a show of merciless identity.
No one does.
So you follow the dull looking guy beside you.
You’re together, but separate.
You’re a looker, so very pretty.
The camel coloured coat that skims your shins and is tied only by a belt belongs to a lady, perhaps a couple of sizes larger than yourself too.
The clinking heels tell me you are short, still growing.
The makeup a daring act.
He enters the shop as you hover outside, no bag on your arm, no possessions of adulthood.
You are a kid, 13 maybe trying out the adult world for size, you are drowning in the symbolic clothing.
He hands you your smokes.
The token reward, you follow him home.
I am living a strangers deja vu, I pray that arch angel Michael still resides in those dank rooms of despair as you tread the concrete path, left, pass the urine stained phone boxes and left again.
I wonder if Bernie ever died and who watches over the broken now.
Karen Hayward ©2016.