Whose ribs will fill you now, black silk dress
looking reproachfully at me
from the half-price rack?
I don’t like your “look at me!” plea with one shoulder
sliding floorward off the hanger.
I want someone to wear you dancing
in some dive on a moonless night
drinking cheap pink wine
out of a paper cup,
easily spilt.
I want you to be worn in
1994 before
the bars were closed
by order
of the governor,
when Portland
was a safe, sweet city reachable in
two hours by car, four by train,
and downtown was for
walking, or in summer, dancing by the river.
