Women aren’t allowed in so we lurk
on the threshold – wives, mothers, lovers
waiting for our men to appear in their
new changed selves. Prime among them
comes the boy, trying on his new blue suit
for next week’s prom. At once we recognise
the occasion, know it’s not a suit
he’s trying on but grown-up-dom. A clutch
of mother hens, we bond in fuss and fret,
dress him in our very best wishes. Now
what colour tie should he wear? Which
shoes? We’re all over him, our fledgling
with his acne, his awkward stance,
his excruciating embarrassment, his beauty.
