I tried to dress like Diane Keaton
in boxy blazers and man trousers.
I wore a long  strap that crossed
the front of me and held  my purse
at my side.

I wore a hybrid hat bred
from a bowler and  a fedora.
I wanted to exude joie de vie,
but I looked like a little boy
who had rummaged
in the attic.

I couldn’t carry it off,
for I’m no Diane Keaton,
nor will I ever be,
nor will anyone.