Attired

Attired

My evening wear, like my underwear,
isn't really silk, merely silky. And my fur,
merely furry. I'm in the midst
of a makeover, an unfinished wish,
not yet fit for conversation. I can't say
where this will lead, resist speaking

engagements. Most of my thoughts
are proprietary, like my body, subject
to arcane privacy laws. Even so,
it's rumored that I've grown morose,
remotely disgruntled. Hunkered

down, I flaunt my wordlessness, wear it
like the newest fashion, cowl collar
pulled high to hide my mouth.
It covers the bare skin of unknowing.
Perhaps the attire of a higher calling.
With nothing to reveal, I'm stone
cold, granite in winter. Say nothing,
says my muffler. Hush, my fuzzy gloves.