Ode to Tights
There is a girl who gets on my train
I have noticed her dresses are rather plain.
A dull rotation of black, blue and grey
Simplistic and basic as she goes on her way.
But yesterday, I began to observe,
There is a surprise element of verve,
As from between commuters knees,
Squashed in very tightly,
Hers stand out rather brightly.
I wonder why, on the 6.48 (for which she is often late)
How someone so plain, from so much colour can gain?
Who knew there were so many hues?
Some days purple, others red, turquoise, green, three types of blues.
Why does she change her tights, and yet her dresses are stuck in a routine plight?
Perhaps she is lazy, too sleepy to pick.
The train departs early, one has to be quick.
Perhaps she has recently travelled from afar,
Her suitcase is lost on a plane to Qatar.
Perhaps she is working for a new tights supplier,
She has to sample all colours to report to her buyer.
I thought, by Thursday, this seems a wise idea.
Perhaps she just wears four dresses all year.
Far less to think of, when defining oneself.
Much less to spend, no worries of wealth.
Less strain on those workers, I’ve seen on the news,
No contracts, low wages: corporations abuse.
Just a dependency on a rainbow of tights,
A kaleidoscope of inspiration
To consider their plight.
Although, I am worried.
Are those responsibly sourced tights?