Fashion Sonnet

The fashions come and go,

drifting in like sparkling snow.
Buttons, zips, and cloths,
woolens for the moths.

Silly cuts and dyes,
laces through the eyes.
New York, Par-ee, Milan--
the models want to yawn.

The cotton comes from soil,
the sweatshops do the toil.
The famous want our gaze--
surplus value is what pays:

after capital infusion.
Fashion: just an illusion.

hans ostrom 2025