There’s a whole generation
Of women, of a certain age,
Who took the poem about
Wearing purple when you’re old
A little too seriously.
The liberation of being able
To dress in a less demure fashion
Is muted, when every woman
On the bus or in the doctor’s
Wears purple pants or coats
Or both. It’s so extreme at times
That they’re difficult to distinguish;
A sea of mauves and lilacs,
Heady with talcum powder and Halls
Bursts from the bus to the pavements.
Any waiting grandchild might not
find their Grammy in the purple waves.
When I am old, I shall wear
Whatever I please, which is,
I think, what the original poem
Was saying, quite clearly.
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