The Unbearable Inertia of Clothes

My clothes are ready to go—wings tacked on,
leather belt snug, holey jeans unfolded,

ready for the road or the Australian
cane toads layered over it in blanketed miles.

Hanging on the edge of flight, my clothes
know better than I which direction to go—

run clothes from under my robe! The Harley one
with the Tazmanian Devil—I wanted to forget,

yet it surfaces now and then in my dank
basement and drapes itself over my shoulders.

What’s to hang onto in a pilled cover?
In clothes once gifted by an unpleasant other?

I scuffle / aimless / haunt my house in robe and sweats
while other robes perform miracles:

From beneath Boudica’s robe escapes a hare,
divinatory, whiskers quivering in flight
her direction suggests a fight (election) might be won.

Meanwhile, Gram’s robe still hangs on the door—
years later things we can’t let go.