Stuff

the everyday detritus
the stuff of living

magazines and papers
laundry and dishes

piles of stuff stacked
in corners
on tables
under beds

boxed and bagged
bundled and buried

the stuff, the mess,
debris of what was

holding sadness in the remnants
of failures and lost ideals
the symbols of ruins of the past

dig into the piles
i dare you to dig
and sift through it
the burial site
the ruins of the life that was

© 13 February 2009
Cynthia Ryder
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The Nightmare at (insert name of department store here)

with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore

'Twas a nightmare at (inset name of department store here), all through the boutique,
not a brassiere to be had, to fit my physique.

The panties were flung in a bin by the cash,
sorting and sifting and fondling the stash,
were hausfraus with children in Keds,
and visions of pole-dances stuck in their heads.

The big mammas in the kerchiefs

had snagged some new briefs.

In the very back corner there was barely a spatter
of nylons and hosiery and other such matter.

The garters were skimpy, lacey and crass;

best ignored if you aren’t showing ass.

The lighting fluorescent cast a glow

giving lack-lustre gleam to the objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
full wall racks and displays of my favorite gear.

With a little lace there and lycra in here

the fanciful bras were all over there.

I looked at the black from Brazil,

and the pink and the brown with the frill.

All the lovelies from Olga and Lucy,

oh, the colours that all seemed so juicy.

A myriad of choices and style,

regarding each one with a smile

I started my quest without looking back

by pawing the structures on the very first rack.

There was 32A and a 36C

a 34B and a 38D

and the ghastly wad

was 44OMFG.

There was lavender and cream,

The red lace was a dream.

Seamless and streamlined.

Spandex and unlined.

For under a t-shirt

and those that convert

For strapless and backless

and those that compress

Lifting and separating

and for moms that are mating

Crossing the heart for hours on end

for some without doubt can be a godsend

18 hours of Playtex

and pieces of latex,

The divine little structures for aisles.

with patience and practice I gathered my piles

Stuffing bras in the change room

I flirted with doom.

What I had held in my hand with glee,

that I hoped would lift more than esprit,

did not fit, so I lifted another

and tried and oh bother.

Again and again and once more

I hang the rejects on the door.

Every bra that looked like it just might,

some looked plain bad, and some were a fright.

With dismay as I tried on the last

I hoped and then muttered “oh blast,

it’s built for a comic book hero.”

With me it scored less than zero.

It had tin tits type firmness

and supports in excess.

I tossed it aside and proclaimed in disgust

“there’s not one thing here to fit my fine bust”.

I had tried at least 50 brassieres

and knew now it was time for the tears,

the sales girl was cross at the mess

50 bras to resort and address.

But we heard her exclaim, as we walked out of sight,
” A 34-quad-D, good fugging luck and good night!!!"

Had the misfortune of bra shopping last month, turns out that I'm either very picky or very hard to fit. Not their fault

Challenged to remember you
there is daily electronic shrine worship
with photographs, notes and mementos
the effort is reduce the regrets
abolish the lingering fears
that were symbols of you

daily you are present
the gift of your desire
quietly celebrated
held sacred in my mind
secret joy and silent love

© 4 February 2009
Cynthia Ryder

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