Date my Dress

I’ve been a fashion victim nearly all my life;

the Afghan coat did not live long but bangles I found then

forewarn jangled grandkids when Granny’s round the bend, again;

a Swatch, an 80’s must-have, still signifies my age;

I still wear kohl in navy while RayBans Aviators shade a faint disguise

for Varifocal lenses and a watering eye. 

Dungarees, a uniform, I’m in my teens again, 

date me and still dress me but find me tapestried, 

wrapped within a collaged quilt of woven histories.

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