As in so many fashion shots,
the clothes don’t really go together,
a strategy I suppose intended
to draw attention to the individual pieces,
in this case, all stripes, a crinkly
banded-collar shirt, untucked,
sleeves rolled, collar open, though
the camera’s gaze surveys him from the back,
slightly toward his left profile,
the photographer having posed him
angled back as if leaning against
an invisible wall, a posture exaggerating
the width of his shoulders and further
slimming his already slender waist
and legs in the snug wide-striped
trousers cut from cotton or maybe linen,
smooth and trim in the rear, his
buttocks not pronounced, front
pocket puckered just a bit,
the pattern biased along the leg seam,
lending a rather zebra-like effect,
maybe just a streak of wildness.
The model, dropping forward his neck,
bows his wavy dark-haired head
to peer into a circular mirror
the he holds out erect in front,
to peer from under languid lids
at his own smooth face, not
as if he’s checking hair or makeup,
but as if, liking what he sees,
he regrets his own uniqueness,
the fact of mere reflection,
the cold and lifeless glass.
Note: the poem alludes to a photograph by the late David Armstrong of model Simon Nessman for the Narcisse series in Vogues Hommes International Spring/Summer 2012.
Copyright 2014
T. Allen Culpepper
Poetry When It Comes 