Some days I refuse
to apply makeup.
I put on clothes that
are within reach,
ignore deodorant. Surprised
by my own fragrance
or a chance reflection
in a passing mirror
I consider: who amongst billions
do I mean to impress otherwise
with Ban Clear and Almay
Creme Foundation? Who
is it I’m hiding from anyway?
And if someone should discover
how I really look and smell
would I disintegrate?
Or could I just be late?
Born in a wrong
century, fated with this
body in this time of
skinny skirts and
superficial importances.
I await a real problem,
like blindness
or cancer
or dead relatives.
Something tangible to
worry about that will demand
more than a sixty dollar
fix at the local cosmetic
counter. The scales
smirk. The jeans won’t zip.
The stars shine in a heaven
on people warring or starving
or abusing each other, or
murdering trees in the
name of progress, or
anesthetizing themselves—
Okay, I give in. Just a
little blush and mascara.
Face the day.