Tactile Maneuvers

by Hugh Fulham

He was a large old lady
closely shaven,
rouge and a blue rinse wig
softened the civil servant
face.  Lower down were pearls,
and a timid grey dress
disguising the obvious.

He chose the path
that hugged the pond
like a scarf, to fall helplessly
before the musical heels
of young women trotting
often alone.

Tender memories
of fluffy grannies
were hesitantly, roused
on seeing his splayed form.
Still, they helped

and his hands
would travel like kerb-crawlers
on a lonely country road.
And they would shrug off
any tense thoughts,
until the evening

where in the mirror
framed by pretty things
they reflected,
on what might have been
a coarse brown pelt,
peeping from under his wig.