[John Whitworth]

Where Are the Negligees of Anthony?

My closet once held forty pin-striped suits
arranged in shades and grades of blue and gray -
each morning I compared their attributes:
The peaked lapels to see the bank, today?
That muted chalk from Nathan Road should play
well there - the Saville Row’s too rich, I fear.
But bright new days now only bring dismay:
where are the clothes of yesteryear?

A businessman must have his absolutes,
those vested interests he will not betray:
I flaunt my Turnbull ties and Magli boots;
this banker favors skin-snug jeans that sway
each time she moves, and whispers, “Call me Kay”.
But when I squeeze her knee, and call her “dear”,
she calls the loan - and knocks my hand away.
Where are the suits of yesteryear?

They’re gone, all gone, on golden parachutes,
to seek the sun and gargle chardonnay;
and what they’ve left behind as substitutes
are brutes, in wrinkled chino disarray,
who think that style’s a Harvard MBA,
a T-shirt that’ promotes a Belgian beer,
and memos on the rules for Casual Day.
Where are the clothes of yesteryear?

Bespoken yet unspoken for, I stay,
aware that reinforcements won’t appear,
but pray that when they speak of me they’ll say:
He wore the clothes of yesteryear.