Clothes

I used to detest putting on new clothes.
I could hardly blame mother who carefully bought me clothes
saying I would have to start wearing things too big for my size
then in one year's time they would fit me perfectly,
but actually I always used to think: Well, what about now?
and I used to detest it because I felt the way I did not fit my new clothes
revealed to strangers how poor we were,
with the sleeves far too long,
so I had to wear them rolled up a couple of times.
I had the impression I was wearing old flour sacks turned inside out;
I felt the girls were giggling behind my back.
Since I hated the new clothes that went about with me
anticipating my childhood desires by a year or so,
I used to roll around recklessly. I would roll on lawns, damp ground,
on dusty playgrounds, but no matter how wildly I rolled,
the ever clean clothes confining me firmly at last
got crumpled up, into the drawers of the desk, into corners
of my room, into cases, into my sense of inferiority, and one day
I ended up tossing out for washing things that were not dirty.
Rushing headlong, tossed out into the world
suddenly there I was, thirty-three years old,
but still this morning, on account of all those clothes
this morning I shouted angrily at my wife:
You haven't ironed my shirt, so how can I put on my suit
and it's already time I was off, for crying out loud!
I seem to have arrived at the point I was bound to reach.
Choosing clothes to match the person I meet, and the place,
is surely a sign I am approaching middle class?
If my clothes have become a colour code guaranteeing wealth and position,
surely I must already be middle class?
No, no, no, shaking my head from side to side,
I put on the clothes the wife has ironed and imagine I'm
a green frog sitting trembling on a pale green leaf,
a mud frog looking out for food in a muddy pond.