Julie Sheehan reads

Brandy Stinger

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You young ones wouldn’t know where to begin
with all the strappy contraptions trussing up us old birds.
Girdles! Lord, where do you buy those catastrophizing things anymore!
Back then courtships were long, honeybunch; they had to be
just to figure out the clothes, not to mention getting them off. Yes,
I’ll have one more and that’s it. But at least you knew how to dress
then, and which aisle was lingerie and which was men’s briefs!
I stopped trying to shop in 1975, when my husband died. Now, child,
it’s too confusing. You can’t tell a lawyer from a rap star.
Just look at the shoes the girls wear! Deadweights! Back in Texas
we used to tie things like that to sacks of doomed puppies, why,
every time I see such shoes I think the poor girl’s liable to drown.
Though I do confess, the ones we wore may have been a little unkind,
expecting your foot to assume a triangular formation to which it did not
                  naturally incline,
but they got you where you wanted to go: married,
however unstably, but secure, knowing you’d both totter on.
All right one more, and that’s final. I don’t envy you
your loose fits, your quick change.