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Stella Davis

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At the Fab Boutique

Roving the racks of throwaway clothes
pinks and purples and striped skyblue
tiny dresses for Saturday night
with hungry, hairy middle–aged hands
was filthy Rich of the Fab Boutique.

Never far from the changing rooms
lurking and leering and handing out
tempting bright trifles, with "Latest thing!"
and "Gorjus, darlin'!" and "You look fab!"
was filthy Rich with his Cuban heels
and dangerous low–slung jeans.

And we couldn't care less what he got up to
behind the curtains, between the rails:
for he had arrived to deliver us
from pleated skirts, and poppet beads,
from twinsets and shirtwaister dresses,
from perms and roll–ons and spiky shoes
and the terrible fate of looking like
our mothers, or Doris Day.

What was a grope between the racks
to a hipster skirt in thin black cord?
To high–laced boots, and latticed tights,
and wisps of underwear from Mary Quant?
What was a slither of hairy hands
to our little knitted tubes of dresses,
to skinny–ribs and wide white belts
to tightly–belted pvc jackets
and dresses with zips from throat to thigh?

Later, we learned that we ought to have minded,
ought not to have put up with him;
later, we learned harsh names to call
his modest lechery: but then
we thought him no price to pay at all
for our decorated selves,
in the hopeful days of our middle teens
in nineteen–sixty–five.

                                                     

Page(s) 22

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