a heart of gold may stand on feet of clay
I pegged the neighbours as nudists, which is fine ’cause I’m not prudish, but rather than fresh air outdoors, they seem to enjoy each other more.
In my thinking, at pubescent best, we’re more glamorous when dressed. Only in poverty are we a spectacle, garments making one respectable.
Winnings from a life of pageants helped with family finances, but left me feeling I’m what I wear, otherwise nobody would care.
When cat-walking, I am invisible. Clothing makes me invincible, protecting me by deflecting chic while the child inside retreats.
I move to the music floating over, then peek to see if anyone’s sober. “Come outta the bush and dance with me.” I’m spotted for wearing too small a tree.
When the couple on welcome duty looked right at me, not through me, I was the one whose soul exposed more than theirs, yet they’re unclothed.
Apparently I’ve been a prude after all, hiding my hurt as if by default I refuse to be seen as whole, unbroken, willing to play, but not to be chosen.
Nobody asks why I still wear socks, the only thing I don’t take off. They remind me of a lesson, the way my heart is gold and feet are clay.
( The above makes reference to What I Wear, but could just as easily refer to Far Farm Home, or Harold’s Crayon, or a number of other tales of transformation. Then again, not all protagonists successfully transform, as Harold illustrates. )
