Pink Spots

She spilled,

                (like a leaky faucet -

                falsetto in its’ drip,

                wet like tears

                dropping from mascaraed

                lashes that are lined

                with foxfire-gray Maybelline)

smooth as quicksilver

sterling drop

mother of pearl earrings,

                (the matching cameo

                and box chain always intact -

always a fine treasure

                that cameo

                with face turned to the side,

                profile standing, gleaming

                in resolution with a melancholic

                façade, the nose upturned)

Clorox onto her brown

hand-me-down jeans

and hated the resulting pink spots

resembling the eyes

of a Picasso Mademoiselle

or anything else absurd.

Copyright © 2005 Jacquii Cooke