The Great Escape

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Too narrow, dark, doored
and dank hole in a wall,
the closest hold of fabric memory
recreasing creases easing awry
near a forgotten coat, its pocket
reminiscing misplaced importance.
Beneath, a ballyhoo of shoes
misshapen pairs despair
for lost mates not to mention
unmentionables wadded on shelves
in their hellish tumbling stacks
teetering on the brink - big assed
pants too big or small or, damn it,
just not right - plaid or striped,
aching style, either in or way out.
All so patiently waiting the squeak
of the hinges and the reluctant
half-naked excursion, hoping
to be selected, slipped on and worn
finally making the great escape.