Window Shop

I’m not much for delicate
but it was dually delicate and hard
like biker wear made of lace
and perhaps it was just these oppositions
that drew my face to the window

I pressed my nose
in oily grease between the sweaty imprints
of my palms
and left my name scrawled
in condensation across the bodice of a dress
I wished to wear

I returned day after day after day
pressing ever closer to the glass
concerned the garment
would find purchase on another frame
and my ruminations became plots to retain
and exercises in endurance

I had no coin, nothing to barter
and layaway seemed the best option
someday to own
someday to pay
but the shoulders already wore dust
loudly stating their need
not for eyes, but
for arms