by Colette Lawlor

My usual haunts leave me unmoved,
bookshops, boutiques, cafes,
their contents easy to resist today.
I drift past figures in windows
with robes draped beguilingly,
revealing snatches of lacy lingerie.

Freesia-filled buckets at my feet
spread heavy perfume. I wander through,
discern, weigh-up, keep my cool
but a well-turned print distracts me,
draws me in with marine hues,
tints of maroon offset with pink flecks.

Perfection is this dress.
I follow its thread, ascend marble steps
to check the cut, caress its heaviness,
imagine the fabric falling
smooth, covering me,
changing my personality.

I move towards the changing-room
with its careful light, try it on for size—
an impressive fit—
hear my steps on waxed parquet
that echoes a future with subdued hues,
hushed voices, knowing respect.

I reach into my rucksack, select a card,
slide it across the glass-topped counter.
The till rings and the glossy carrier filled,
its pristine space occupied by promises.
I am holding its red silk ropes
that guide me into the still-wet street.

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