The one I wear for interviews,
The one I wear for funerals.
Feeling up the firm creases ironed
into the thighs of the trouser-legs,
steamed and starched lapels are licked
by tidy cufflinks, the black plastic buttons
catching on the fly, concealing inner pleats,
that intricate machine-stitched framework
of ligament and vertebrae
that ripple up each supple limb.
The restraint of coathangers
sliding under their clavicles
inclines their climaxes,
the only sign of which
is the soft fraying of the hems
around their wrists and ankles –
ignoring the moths and embracing
the unprecedented pleasure
of finding someone to hold on to,
of making love in the dark.
Follow Oscar on Instagram @frappgold and his blog stirlingpoetry.wordpress.com