its warm bodice and intricate lace
tells nothing of its past
which I know
from a black and white sign
hung on an outlet rack.
“smoke damaged garments, price reduced.”
a bubbly clerk,
“from a building fire in the L.A. riots;
they smell fine.”
“much sweeter than perfume.” a value.
all gussied up in near-looted cloth,
like donning a slab of the Berlin Wall
with frills attached.
and that is why I have written this
across the breast of your treasure.
and see within its weave
a monochrome of politics,
you, and a burning riot on your back.