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Sport 42: 2014
A gift of spotted tights
A gift of spotted tights
Three times I circle the block thinking
What to buy, what to buy? and the moment
a space becomes available I know:
an extravagant pair of tights you’d never buy
for yourself, even if you were a Medici
and an armful of new dresses had just been delivered
and swooned over the arm of a maid. You’d think
how the maid’s fingers would have to ease
the pink blisters raised on the black nylon
over your ankles and calves—Take them away
you’d scream as she tugged—they look like plague
and the maid would scuttle from the chamber
but you, who have no one to dress you, will sit
demurely on the side of your bed and point
your big toe first, then your heel, calf, knee
and thigh (standing upright now) until
you’re clad in these remarkable tights. Pink
raised lumps on black-as-deepest-hell
you’ll wear them somewhere and disdain the
comments that follow. Fetch a doctor, call the ambulance.
Her legs have broken out. The bobbles warm
your upper thighs, you touch them through your skirt
and underneath the tablecloth your putrescent instep
innocently brushes against a trouser leg.