The Unknown Fop

In the passage o’er of years
our Charles a certain style’s acquired-
remarks to same in him produce
a poignant shame,
a shuffle-stepped bashfulness
and mope where once was ease,
a long-legged lope.

For Charlie
(seeming) hours spent,
snug in a wobbly rack
of second-hand coats,
(his mum a-near, a-shopping)
where he a simplest child-comfort sought
and found in a wool wove shroud -
(an aromatic anti-moth
cloud emitting)-
a pseudo-womb with him,
on the wild, wide wing
of naphthelene dreams, within.

A workless Friday eve
four decades since,
in lieu of the over-ordinary
brown-bagged bottle response to
iniquities and inner inquietude,
caffeine crazed Charlie
seeks hot chocolate
cafe-terrace haven-

on his unobtrusive entrance
some sassy gal exeunt stage right quips,
" It's been ages since we've seen
someone nattily attired 'round here."

His unprepared innards cringe,
a knit-browed frown
consumes his smile,
a rush of aged echoes ensues-

(those with which he must
nightly come to grips)

brotherly injunctions
against conspicous consumption,
his fathers gnawing accusation that
he'd oft and unthinkingly sacrificed
the substantial for the soft, egoic
inclination toward superficiality and
the miserly macro-economics of style.

Charlies hefts his eyes from off
his beat-down wing tip shoes,
and
"Naught to win
or lose with echoes"

thinks-

then, still a bit abashed,
gingerly grins and winks,
says " Why, thank you, Dear."