The racks at Goodwill, they're packed with wedding dresses.
Salvation Army, stacked with those sad white dresses.
Old dreams dropped at the curb. Post-breakup messes.
Those beads on skinny threads, just watch how they fall.
Those skirts like limp balloons. That skimpy tulle-
It's called illusion, baby. Time to get real.
Sheen of that satin, slinky slide of those trains?
They crumple and wrinkle, honey. Those strapless gowns
look hot, hot, hot, but you wear them and feel the bones.
No call for eveningwear now. No night-life scene.
It's dead polyester and blue-suit gabardine.
The season's gone cold and sober. It's Halloween
and getting dark now, ladies, so make your minds
bloodier. Come get your costumes. Work on your lines.
Be the zombies, the corpse brides, the brides-of-Frankensteins.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem