Four life-size lipsticks jive, they
groove in tune with costumed comrades:
the monstrous tapeworm, unfitting for even
a family of whales, head held high like
homemade dragons on Chinese New Year, or
the bald man decked out in navy felt, garb
saturated with plastic spoons he
needs to get laid.

But the lipsticks in their red, red heels, with
human eyeholes hidden behind fabric, which
shows the blend of castor & chemicals, what hue:
dark crimson or barracuda berry?

They wear but a fraction of the common ingredients
used for dressing up,
makeup as the encore.
It stains the lips,
the coffee rims around the country,
the chests of restricted lovers.
Let us celebrate the metaphor of makeup
on this festus day--where it’s excusable to act out
the fantasies of being not
ourselves.