No room to maneuver while dressing: a thump and a breathless curse. She emerges from behind the curtain and turns for the mirror and me, era upon era Of color and fabric waiting silently, consigned to discovery and a side street. The old denim fits well, long but Hip-hugging. Gradients of Levi blue Shift between ankle and knee, Waist and swell of buttock to thigh. She revels in the vintage feeling, The cotton that holds like velvet. These fraying jeans, broken years ago, May be the fifth, the seventh, the twentieth She wandered into today—the pair that fits. We will never know who wore that indigo Until it faded to sky; who had a body That moved and bent like hers does now.