Who Are You Wearing? Gordon Phipps [Total Pages: 3] Phipps Page 1 The parade of heavenly carriages descends to     the gates of the scarlet glade -- long, well-stocked saloons floating on     pressurized air, black or white, their opaque shields conceal     divine passengers. Behind densely armed centurions, bleachered     rabble gasp as the procession hovers, hisses,     hums above the freshly scrubbed stones. Behold! They disembark! See them emerge! Reborn, upright, fully formed. The mischievous and the severe, exhilaratingly     lucid with volitional annual detox, ageless wonders of rolfed, massaged, Pilates'd,     coiffeured charisma, sculpted and painted facades of forced humility, resplendent in couture colors, the folding     drapery oblivious to recent fluctuations of mass and assemblage. The breasts are hung low, au naturel, or pushed up like muffins on a cupboard shelf. Idly, they wander on layers of rose petals, palm     leaves, maroon tapestries. Sans repertoire, they seem almost lost, without     temples or retainers, with no fire to quell,     floodwater to still, monster to grapple and     subdue. Resourcefully they greet one another as if old     comrades. Bare female shoulders and voices ascend as the     steroid robust males squeeze, single-handed, between occasional embraces of awkward     civility.