Painted stockings

Perched on the candy pink 

bathtub, her perfect 

stockings take shape

She applies the formula 

(her mother’s secret)

stroke by stroke

Her legs reveal 

life as trompe l’oeil 

seams permanently straight 

Stepping out 

in a patent two-strap

the city clicks & hums

In the typing pool 

qwerty girls knead keys

smug in silk hose 

Four shillings 11 pence a pair 

for broken threads runs and ladders

hammering their h-e-a-r-t-b-r-e-a-k-s

Returning home

in a carriage

she unlocks the waiting door

Scrubs the day away

with penny-a-bar soap

rolling down papery skin

To uncover a tangle

of inky ribbons

imprint barely legible