No, not really, no

I'm not as well as you might suppose,
your timeline ticking out the back
my movement's drafted to the new-
age calendar for condolence and black tie

publicly, no arm-band for inquiry
nor gown and stalking cap -
mine's a sooty seamless dress half-
hemmed above my un-shaved legs

yes, it's eye-liner
that is a bomber-cut ball gown
in solid sarsaparilla and salt-etch
needle-work, a falling water-table

given this prom-confusion is
ineligible worn - how then are you to know
to ask so and so if I (through my perspiration
and bluster) logic out the hate?

I'm as righteous as I seem only to
seeming sight a dignity entrap -
snare a passing sympathiser, a dinner-party
mourner or a bright street-urchin's son

someone to make to ask to see
the place where it happened,
the depth of the way she walked
out and out past the bridal falls

for now, these tatters and theologies
rule only my intellect and fail,
in conveyance of the real and true
parochial, my un-okay-ness with it all

so you just ask 'Are we cool?'
the most ridiculous of questions dear
given the lack of status I now hold
if I could scream this I would.

No, not really, no.