the dust bowl years

in the beginning, when
first married,
she appeared
in the doorway like
a vision,
with stockings
and heels, a shimmering
web of thin fabric
around her lithe body,
a rainbow of colors,
all sheer.
everything held together
with fragile buttons
and clasps, hooks
that were nearly impossible
to unfasten.
her lips were red
as cherries, her high
cheeks flush.
and we would make love
by candlelight while
it flickered on
the nightstand, a breeze
from the open window
blew against our skin,
hot with passion.
but now, years later,
i see her coming in
wearing a prairie dress
up to her chin. something
akin to what they wore
during the dust bowl
years, wool socks,
a cat in her arms,
and her hair pinned
up in a tight wound bun.
but me, i haven't
changed. i'm still
the same. white shorts
and a faded t-shirt
that says ocean city
on the front.