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IN PRAISE AND DEFENSE OF THE

CARDIGAN

BY MABLE BUCHANAN

Where did you earn this reputation as a matriarchal,
celibate and lonely, dreary
schoolmarm with a ruler? Heavens, that is not
the cardigan I know. You are not frumpy.
You are first dates at the gallery,
pineapple and honeydew, love letters
sealed with the scent of warm vanilla.
You are hands held under the table.

When you finish your lace valentines,
you are stealthily slipping
out your creaky window after curfew.
You are the grace and poise that charmed us all
in 1930s Hollywood, a classic-
you'll flirt with Frank Sinatra,
you'll save a dance for Fred Astaire,
but you won't kiss and tell.

You are sonnets scrawled on napkins
at the drive-in movie, stealing
kisses while your poor grandmothers'
backs are turned. They'll never know.
Lose that naive blush; you know
exactly what you're doing. So
let all beware of plain Jane; you're never sure
what she has up those sleeves.

Maybe you are
a grandmother's sweater, so what if it's true?
We are evidence that our grandfathers
liked you just fine. I won't trouble myself
with black leather pants and sequined crop tops-
I'll just button my mother-of-pearls and stop
two down from the collar. You are chaste, a coy
refusal soon chased by
a sure and certain all-emphatic
yes.