Poetry / Above The Mezzanine (July 31st poem)

 I’m looking through the glass at Saks Fifth Avenue,

watching middle aged glamour-vixens search for

the perfect open-toed, stiletto-heeled

torture device

and there’s a hole over the big toe of my canvases

that I’ve decided adds character.

The whole floor

smells like expensive perfume –

                                          Chanel, anyone?

and money.

There’s something remarkably

clean

about these much-travelled carpets

(Oriental, important at that), and

the mobs of gold-trimmed

elevator occupants shuttling

up and down in the glass shutes

like something from science fiction.

                                          Everywhere

white lights create

makeshift constellations

so that we all feel

like we’re supposed to be starlets.

I’m supposed to be a starlet.

Only,

I’m just a behiind-the-scenes

sort, alien

in the crushing clouds

of tall, blonde, apricot, raven, coffee

girls, skinny or muscular –

polaroids smiling whitewashed bone-china.

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