no one ever
What are you
wearing right now?
Are you basking
in translucent skivvies,
rocking spangled self-awareness,
dream-dropping golden drawers
and grace-lace in multi-storied tatters,
are you so flagrantly naked right now,
candle-wax-drip in a homuncular beehive
on a Saturday night in heaven,
that you are rising, unleavened,
toward a new species of self-hood?
Are you clad in night-armor,
clank-stepping to the beat of your own private drummer?
Are you on fire, from the waist down? the neck up?
Is the tender, supple geography of your body
high-classing it three-piece-prayer style?
Is your invisible overcoat thick as chagrin
and molasses? Do you feel warm? safe?
Sick of existential hand-me-downs
which come from another time, another place?
Who exactly is wearing pink bunny slippers
from the dustbin of memory,
fuzzy brown sweaters
loved to a state of sentimental holiness,
sleeveless hearts exposed to scarring
We live in a world of private parts
and cyclical makeovers,
and yet how rare it is
for someone to ask,
What are you metaphysically wearing