Modesty Panel

The air is pumped in straight from the arctic,

making the mood feel slightly cathartic.

I’m reaching behind for the flimsy twine,

trying to make the two loose edges align.

The diamonds are faded, a washed-out blue,

on a fabric that’s seen more than a few.

I’m a serial number, a chart on a clip,

waiting for the winter to finally slip.

My bare heels are cold on the linoleum floor.

I listen for footsteps outside the door.

They take your clothes and they take your pride,

leaving you nothing but the shivering inside.