Poetry Monday

Metamorphosis

by Peter Porter

This new Daks suit, greeny-brown,

Oyster coloured buttons, single vent, tapered

Trousers, no waistcoat, hairy tweed – my own:

A suit to show responsibility, to show

Return to life – easily got for two pounds down

Paid off in six months – the first stage in the change.

I am only the imagine I can force upon the town.

The town will have me: I stalk in glass,

A thin reflection in the windows, best

In jewellers’ velvet backgrounds – I don’t pass,

I stop, elect to look at wedding rings –

My figure filled with clothes, my putty mask,

A face fragrant with arrogance, stuffed

With recognition – I am myself at last.

I wait in the pub with my Worthington.

Then you come in – how many days did love have,

How can they be catalogued again?

We talk of how we miss each other – I tell

Some truth – you, cruel stories built of men:

“It wasn’t good at first but he’s improving.”

More talk about his car, his drinks, his friends.

I look to the wild mirror at the bar –

A beautiful girl smiles beside me – she’s real

And her regret is real. If only I had a car,

If only – my stately self cringes, renders down;

As in a werewolf film I’m horrible, far

Below the collar – my fingers crack, my tyrant suit

Chokes me as it hugs me in the fire.