The kid’s quiet then she teeters in, all glamour and glitz. The Ritz is asking, Mademoiselle, for your curtain call dress, a glitterball gown,
dragging by your feet— oh, but her shoes! Duty bound cardinal red swim in the eye like the carpet you ought to premiere on. It matches the lipstick
rub, your lips a yolk as though you had drawn over the lines, a smear having caught the pearl shawl around your neck. Those your grandmother passed down, you say? She would be so proud.