Facebook Selfies
A closet hangs with ideas from Facebook posts past.
Tags still hang from pretty purchases,
nobody tagged in posts never made.
I sigh as I struggle in arms and poke through my big head.
The hourglass that has flippantly flipped
two hundred and eighty nine thousand times
has not left me it’s salacious shape like it has Michelle.
I wiggle out of wool’s tight hug.
A T-shirt and work worn jeans beacon me
like someone never unfriended.
I apply a layer of vanity,
rimming my eyes in black
a raccoon’s asset, so why not mine?
Red rouge ravishes cheeks that the sun should have.
I wince in weary wonderment as
Jan still looks like twenty Januarys ago.
There’s Tammy, posing perky and proud perfect.
She has a cousin I wished to kiss in kindergarten.
Lovely Lisa, whose husband I did try kissing in first grade.
Wendy is still wily and wild in a winsome way.
Betsy, best in beauty, my childhood cornerstone before chantilly.
Then, holding a two year old friend,
outside my three feet of comfort,
I tap the icon, and wonder momentarily,
why it’s called as such.
Realization hits like the sissy girl I used to be.
Its iconic, this legacy of vanity,
passed from polaroid to paranoid.
I don’t have to shake it and wait, it’s instantaneous.
This face is a fleeting fallacy.
So I lather away the layer of vanity
and return to myself.
I like her better,
and so might he,
so I post.
It’s a wait and see.
Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2018
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