The crocodile, boredom and scales, sitting
at work to survive a day 33 degrees Celsius
discovering her slacks, specially chosen for
keeping cool, oh horror of horrors, got holes
in – not of design, but wear and tear, this is
awful, my clothes are unlawful, I’m guilty of
public indecency, who saw me? ! – if only I
can get home in one piece – the shorts in
my cupboard at work is a public menace
also, orange shorts with purple ink stains
I’m stuck with this, sophisticated image of
black T-shirt and lipstick all shattered
The mirror shows me a barbarian reptile,
not mastering the concept of clothing!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem