The hem line
That makes boys become thieves
Of glances and perverts, of their
Own curiosity. What stands miniature
In stature and is pulled down
With great difficulty
And yet sways in the gentlest mistral.
The short and the shortie
That makes Danny De Vito look tall
And a little underwear a peekaboo.
And this item of clothing
Is what makes girls grow up
To the angst of their dads
And yet makes moms reflect on their heyday
When they too were 70s chicks
Darting around in bare minimum.
This item will always be
At the center of wardrobe malfunctions
Or perhaps scandalous affairs
And will make the boyish heart giddy up
Like a mustang in the wild.
And yet, there are no constitutions
To a scanty piece of clothing
Just the perfect sovereignty
Of comfort and the reason, legends
Like Sharon Stone, are made on screen.
And she will only ask for respect
From the uninvited and scandal from the invited
To make her come off in loon.
When the strangest epiphany falls
– That a naked woman pales
To a glimpse of her hemline.
Disclosure was always an anti-climax.
It takes away the mystery
Out of the plot. The suspense
Out of the riddle.
Perfection out of imperfection.