I like to think of myself as a mother.
Items of clothing cling to me like children
gripping their mother’s hand as they cross the street.
And sometimes their hangers rock when brushed against,
as though I am lulling the garments to sleep.
When my doors shut I imagine its night time,
and I make up bedtime stories for them all.
Of long forgotten socks bravely escaping
from the musky horrors of beneath the bed;
about a new jacket making its debut,
causing the ladies at work to gasp in awe.
Running shoes work hard to beat their fastest time,
sprinting the track at top speed; in it to win;
daring dresses are slipped on for the first time,
twirling around the dancefloor of a night club;
But the children aren’t mine. They belong to her.
Her name is Claire. She snatches clothes from my grasp,
tugs them over her body, and slams my doors.
Sometimes she discards my babies, like they’re trash;
she throws them at my feet, crumpled in a ball.
She doesn’t love them. Not the way that I do.
She doesn’t wait with them till they fall asleep,
or hold them tenderly the way that I do.
She’s just a human. She doesn’t understand.
But to her, I guess, I am just a wardrobe.