I see you there -- seated at the vanity.
Crow to peacock. Mouse to Eve.
Refined as cashmere worked from wool.
The mirror is clean.
A powder tin for snow on dirt
as if some palm could ever resist/reverse
palettes of storms licking their chops,
snapping the bendable branch.
Science of preserving youth --
a formula for dressing
plain truth in silk and gabardine lies.
You'd underline a strength you saw,
perhaps a curve, a sexy mole.
A plethora of busy trays --
petrie dishes growing hope
where none existed to eyes.
I admired the way you sat -- then rose,
born again by $60 throat cream
and a string of false pearls.
Salsa of rouge on your cheeks.
I borrowed your chair and your hands
when you left for a luncheon
of salad and wine --
played in your dollhouse,
testing the thickness of walls,
writing my name with eyeliner sticks.
Pleasant as these gestures were,
they didn't slay serpents of doubt,
fill empty pant legs dangling like spider webs.
I was still shadows chasing residual light.
I was still homeless surrounded by paint.
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