X changing room

It is a sale.
I wander and wonder
like a wistful snail
between the mannequins
whose every perfecct plastic limb
seeks to sell
the shell
of a dream.
Glad rags
and glittery bags
hypnotise
I, trying to be sensible, skirt
a pair of flared trousers
in petrol colours;
explosions of sequins
on a shirt
mimic musak with an unknown beat
which still propels my feet
untill
a bossy glass
shows my trsspass.

With reflection
I realise
in dejection
I'm too late:
these bright trappings
are the wrappings
of a sweet
I've tasted all I will.

Back on the street
a can
is a toy
for a boy
kicking the wait
to be a man.