Fifty-five years later, a hominid from Cleveland
walked into the last dress museum in Ohio,
turning left on an ancient street. Her internal GPS
system had been reformatted by the River people.
This kept her kind from straying into unsafe borders.
Her cold, stainless hand fingered velvet and lace,
satin and Spandex, embroidery and fur.
There was no nostalgia in her routine,
touching this and that, spending the Green Time
that was allotted to her on fabrics with tags
and names of colours, Magenta. Silver. Fawn.
Her eyes had long ago lost that sense
for pinpoint accuracy. It was good for race relations
in the old world, precious little of which
had been stored in her memory files.
To the best of what remained of the records named
Sheer Whimsy, she wasn’t even sure she was a girl.
Bodies were self-replicating, though she felt
a strange longing for frilly lingerie.
There was no manual or store for that application.
The Dreamers had removed every file and curve of flesh,
and no one knew what happened the day before.
