In praise of thrift shop clothes

She thinks she's chic; she thinks I'm not. The supple satin fabric
on her skin still holds its sheen. My mode is subtle; my threads
a little thin. We never talk about clothes.

I accept her bling, and she knows my clothes
are thrift shop fare. I don't say the zany mix of fabric
makes you go again, don't mention that not buying threads

brand new will save you half your wages. True, a thread
is coming loose, there's a seam to mend. Last season's, at least these clothes
can live, not like the fish in rivers running red with fabric

dye. Or pink with fabric dye. Or black with thread dye. Clothes. Taboo as death.