Sunday, 8 May 2011


Domiciliary care-worker, Dom is Hilary on his nights off.
Cross-dressing Dominic knows his friends and colleagues would scoff, if they knew about his secret transvestite lifestyle.
They’d call him a drag act, a queen and a queer,
He was none of those things but that’s not how it would appear.
Behind his closed doors, Dominic can’t hear them sneer,
Tottering around in high-heels, necking a beer.
Admiring himself wearing a dress in a full-length mirror,
Dom reflects on his furtive actions.
There must be more like me, he muses, enough for several factions.
He just felt good in women’s clothes,
Freed at last from a costume he loathes.
At work, dressed like a man,
Dom felt uncomfortable and wrong and wan.
Why should it be a guilty pleasure, what he did in his leisure?
One day, a crazed nudist colony broke into Dom’s house and set fire to his entire wardrobe,
‘A COSTUME DRAMA’—the local paper’s headline read,
Above a picture of Dom’s downcast head,
With the firemen, whose rescue had led,
To his discovery, in a nurse’s dress, in his shed!