Automat (1927), Edward Hopper
Fashion Plate
She was bothered
by what uncle Ned said—
That she, like
most women, was fashion’s slave,
Who had gotten it
into her cloched head
She was riding high
on a suave wave
To Paris when she
was actually bound
By the chains of
convention and would find
Herself—if she held
her fashionable ground—
On some Chanel
isle where the natives dined
On older women who
were not du jour.
She sat there
wondering if someone, this day,
Took her photo for
the rotogravure,
Would she someday be
the picture of passé—
The butt of bad jokes,
like Thomas Crapper—
A louche, low-waisted,
flat-chested flapper?
Robert Forrey, 2012
