Jane, slender short and
plain enough, in a teal room, bay window,
daybed, cream primrose cotton
blanket, antiqued mirror, Monet
print on the wall (morning light, pale
autumn, the City), hardbound
Pelican Shakespeare on the oak
chair, open to a page of
Cymbeline

Until her aunt (by
marriage) arrived, back from
Europe, bearing among her rich
spoils to be distributed, with
unstinting worldly hand, a

Purple patent leather bomber jacket

For Jane, picked up in
Hamburg, Amsterdam, or some
such place; and when she bore it
off to her room, burning shyly, and
closed the door and put it
on over her polo tee (the
one in heather grey), she looked
in the glass, and blinked and smiled and,
blushing Parson's Pink, of this glossy
Apparition begged reply:

"How do you like the new Jane?"