this is just to tell you that i wear your dress sometimes the one you made with the gold brocade and the empire waistline you fitted to your figure when it looked just like my own that was jersey in the fifties, and the women stayed at home
so you laid your paper pattern on the table in between the silverware and napkins and the harper's magazines from a slow suburban season that is nothing but a dream to your granddaughter
this is just to tell you that i wear your dress sometimes i wear it down to the bar in town and dance around all night talking and joking, swearing and smoking like any stranger in a crowd and nobody stares, nobody cares to tell me i'm not allowed- i am allowed
and my body, by the letter of the law, is still my own when i lay down in the darkness, unburdened and alone with the liberty you've given like the clothing you've outgrown to your granddaughter
this is just to tell you that i wear your dress sometimes
