A Creature of the Canopies
Manhattan hi-rise nestles
a yawning head-in-the-clouds woman
ready for another consumptive day.
Shod in Choo's, coifed in beige
arising from a long slender nape,
she leaves her nest
after a wave to Amin, her Bichon Frise.
Down-to-the-lobby sashay,
swinging a Gucci full of plastic,
belies an air of loneliness
as she walks to a waiting limousine.
Always caged, the smile is frozen
beneath a botoxed brow.
And the point of it all?
Well, for this life ...
there isn't one.
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