Men Swear Poem by Matthew Thorburn

I misread on the UP escalator
at Macy's and things go downhill
from there. Now starchy
as a white shirt, now neat as a pleat
in my new blue suit, I slip like
a stitch through Grand
Central and up Park Avenue.
Oh, to be crisply cuffed,
something in fall flannel to flatter
this flaneur. Hello, you old so-and-so,
I tip my cap to you. But no-
misplaced cufflinks, my cuffs
all aflutter, and so
difficult to think at the end
of the day, to grow
thoughtful and pause- reflecting
as I'm reflected, freeze-framed
in this window, hand in
pocket, my yellow pocket
square, elbowed in
amongst the many mannequins.
Passersby dawdle by
in slo-mo. Across the avenue
the Pizza King's got a line out
the door. Let the young
ladies dress me and address me
as they will. Dear Alexandra,
dear Epiphany- upwardly
mobile with your tiny
mobile phones. We're window
dressing, sure, but what
windows. Only the ATM gives us
exactly what we want.