The Closet of My Discontent

 

Grey picture, eh? 

The Closet of My Discontent

 Just before midnight,

I stand in front of my closet 

and dress for work;

pragmatism at its best (or worst).      

For in five and a half hours' time,

eyes grow untrustworthy and

 husbands deserve to snooze;

wake them not with noise and light.

Ten months a year,

I perform this ritual begrudgingly,

note how it lacks the light of summer ceremony,

(when instead of pulling on charcoal wool for the long commute,

I slip into yellow cotton and walk my husband to the train)

and blame the Feminists.

I've grown tired of this winter wardrobe, 

of dark days and matching clothes.

I'm ready for FiveFingers and running shorts,

sunburns and tangerine dreams.

Only 16 weeks to go.