I watched you sip your mixer as you stared in the mirror,
glass framed silence for you to contemplate the transformation.
Between the sips a blur of gloss would taint the lip from a mouth
too irresistible to say no to and yet and yet you wiped it off
by staining it that impertinent red you used to say was whore-toned.
You put on your makeup slowly, a smudged self getting rubbed out
when all you had to do was smile and I’d see you, recognise you.
I lay on the bed fascinated, watching a dis-formation blizzard that face
and all I wanted to do was cry lettered tears of books and venture,
of wit and rye, all to fall off my cheeks onto your hands to rub you clean.
The satin slip, the ease of painted lip, you dressed to transform yet
there was no butterfly to find out of your chrysalis, just a battered
moth that had known better days. You looked a million dollars but I
would not have paid a cent for your make over, it made you under,
made you differ from the different you have always been till now.
Standing you turned for my approval, a look in your eyes to say
you didn’t need it anyway, and I could do nothing but smile tightly
at this strangeling in my room that had washed herself dirty,
made herself down by making herself up, and you were absent for me.
No brain no words no jazz, just powder and kohl and false pizzazz.