How to Dress a Poet

How should I dress, now I am a poet?
In voluminous psychedelic robes
that flow kaftanesque
topped with a headscarf, not a bandanna,
made of flimsy silken fabric
wound and tied to my head
with a bow on the side?
 
In ripped jeans of indigo should I parade their
wholly distressed look with gaping chasms
at the knees and a T Shirt proclaiming that
God is a woman or dead or an alien?
Should I be tattooed with quotes
From Byron, Tennyson or if meant to
shock, from Phillip Larkin?
 
Should I let my Irish meat head hair
grow wild and flow outwards
in wiry tendrils and ever decreasing spirals
with maybe a pink streak for luck,
grey peeping through at the roots?
I could keep it short, cropped an institution haircut
Preparing for old age, shampooed and set
White or blue fluffy curls moulded like a poodle’s
 
For footwear, I decide Boots are best
Long, leather, black with laces, I would
Wear them with my finest gown and
Also, when shopping in town.   Then I think
Of sandals of brown worn leather with
Straps encircling my sturdy ankles.
 
How should I dress now I am a poet?
I will en-robe myself in rich vocabulary
Words that stun, surprise or sometimes provoke tears
As a poet, my mind shall sport a garb,
that no matter what my outer robe,
I am clothed in poetry.