Even to an untrained eye
One can spot layers of foundation
Caked into her face

Is she a victim
Of some historical imperative?

Is she caged
In some arbitrary matrix?

Some fun-house of mirrors
While a mustachioed ringleader
Overcharges, shouting

“Come one, come all, bedazzled spectator
Behold, the distorted woman
Transmogrifying before your eyes!”

Or maybe she’s just vain
Or betwixt the two

Somewhere, a boy drops a sixpence
It rattles in the dusky jar
As he enters the dark show