The dry dock cruise ship shop
sits still, basking in the
air conditioning’s cool breeze chill.

Makeup stays clad to the skin
of the marionette workers, well presented,
ever so stick thin.

Perfume scents the room as if a wrist,
but no carpals I know have
their own stock list system.

The ugly sit in seats made for them,
wide berth for the wider *** of
greed not guilt.

John Lewis is no place to be at Christmas,
as the hounds of cosmetics
will pin you down,
deep into the laminated, pretty white
ground