Forgetful Me

It was just forgetfulness I swear and the

daily domestic disaster of getting

two boys and a girl to school, a

days shopping planned, the heat that

made sense of the short sundress.

It wasn’t until the escalator in the Mall and the

soft whistle from below that I discovered that my

knickers were beautifully ironed in their

proper drawer but not on me and I

flushed as I wondered what they could see, those

men down there, looking.

The higher I went the more they would see and

I was suddenly wet thinking of it, wondering if I was

well-groomed, wanting desperately to

root in my bag for something I didn’t need and

pondering whether I owned

enough shoes.