[un]dressing

i watch them strip the clothes off
the plastic mannequins 
in the shop window. some just torsos 
& others with long thin sapling arms.
the woman undressing them undoes 
the clothing one button at a time
as if these mannequins were beautiful people
standing till in the window all day 
looking out at the sidewalk & whispering
to each other about the passers by.
none of them have heads, and, looking in
the window, i can see my own head 
on their bodies. i feel the worker
gently putting on the next days clothes 
the way a mortician might dress 
a quiet body for their funeral. 
i tell the mannequins that i wish my days
turned over like this. with a new 
world of cloth-- with a view of the street
becoming night. everyone who walks past
is on the phone. are they calling
their mannequins? are they asking
their still bodies to put on
the next days clothes? this is not
what i do, though i am not sure
what i do to believe the sun has really
climbed down into the basement
& come back. the woman 
who dressed the mannequins
ambles through the aisles.
the store is closed but all the lights
are all. i sleep with my lights on
sometimes when i am scared. all the clothing
wants to be worn by the mannequins.
i want to knock on the window 
& ask if they'll take me-- if they'll
teach me stillness. teach me
how to pose like i'm not breathing.
teach me how clothing goes on 
& off like light switches 
all over the walls. a street lamp
flickers out & i convince myself 
i've broken it. i apologize to it
for wanting too much at once.
it winks again & i begin to
walk home. in my house i stand
in the kitchen just to listen 
to someone knock on the neighbor's door.
i hear them climb into the world
above me & i wonder if they are 
a mannequin. if upstairs 
the neighbors are friends with 
the mannequins, if they let them
try on clothes & those are the noises
i hear above me 
all night.