You model a sequined crown,
But I am the cupcake tester.
But let’s meet at twelve for cappuccinos.
I am the vintage 60’s gowns,
yellow, red, blue, and pink;
you match me well.
T-mobile we share:
“Hey how are you,
can you hear me,
losing signal,
what happened?”
You are silky rhyming thoughts,
But you have no tongue for my French lyrics, Mon Dieu!
I am nimble fingers across onyx and ivory
baby grand keys,
But you are fingers that stumble and trip; slow progress.
I am my sister’s driving, and the passenger side view,
But you are the babysitter of your six year old sis.
You definitely can’t be the carrot nibbler,
your ice tea gushes
with chalky, cancerous, sucralose.
When my bag is empty and the canary packets tossed,
I will don my thick velvet dress and long leather Gillies,
But you bypass the Irish, and
grab your Turkish fairy tale.
My fingers aren’t well rehearsed, as yours seem to be;
You are practiced with a leathery moleskin and pen.
However we share the
trickling mascara through
Paris Street Markets morning rummages.
And we’re learning to share
the fluffy Persian cat, the kiwi bird,
and our parents, total of six.
You are an artist, an actress.
I am an artist, an actress
Are our cappuccinos ready?