Every Sunday filled with flesh

waiting in the wings for Sunday
torn totem birds of paradise
hat pinned and collar pelts of mink
worn thin. Tightly buttoned coats

dark suits all Jewish tailor made
waiting in the wings for Sunday
limp as the condemned, they hang
stiffened between the shoulder blades

moths have cut holes in floral silks
linens like paper, yellowing
waiting in the wings for Sunday
tissue-toed shoes line the silence

only deathwatchers are tapping
and the wardrobe moans with old age
guarding garments these post-war years
waiting in the wings for Sunday