the ladies in the powder room speak well

of you my dear. they say with red rouged cheeks

and eyes beneath caked blue "my god." oh hell!

what gasps are those, the practiced Os, which leak

a wispy thought? but now that thought is masked

beneath a slab of cream upon a face

made-up to seem angelic. yet remiss

are they in what you've got, choked by lace

and satin teddies. dear, how you rest your

head upon my breast and whine about

your headache. you wish to go but they purr

to you and crook red nails to hook your pout

and put it on its head. the powder room,

the powder room: into the powder room.