The Little Black Dress

Just out of reach
in a shop window,
discreet,
one teasing design’s
perfection.

I am huge,
her heart says,
and incomplete,
without the basic black dress
I’m told a wardrobe needs.

The deeper she studies an innocent reflection, so greater becomes her restless irritation, until she, resigned, repeats:

“Is there no measure,
no sort of tape
to offer kind assessment
and a moment’s
escape?”

Then, as if exact on time,
a blessing breeze sets in,
tousles every skirt the
same
and touches soft
each chin.