Dorothy Parker Fridays
I wear worry lines most days.
They trace the edges of my eyes
like war paint.
On days when motherhood will not be enough,
I think of dark, short hair with waves
as unpredictable as mountain roads.
Twin backseat screams make short rides long,
force me back to long-lost days of boys and shows,
driving the wrong way down a one-way Pensacola street.
The ever-seventeen year old in me
cannot behave. She needs
a Dorothy Parker Friday
sometimes.
I dress my eyes in dark,
put the color of blood on my lips.
I vamp a little.
I polish up the skin of a self
pushed aside by another.
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