A Mannequin’s Truth

Fashion left her naked
in a high street window
like a recurring dream
where you can't scream –
some blame automation,
others online shopping.

Her cobalt glance, the tilt
of her head for the silence
in the beggar's jobless hands,
for the bundled street sleeper, his
burnt blanket in a empty doorway.

Hers is not alopecia or chemo,
hers is the cruelty of commerce
when it can no longer dress you
leaves you bare of a crown. People pass
then look down. Eyes to the right,
eyes to the left, they don't lie,
it's a myth.