Not Pretty In Pink
Just thirteen and already hiding,
capped off like an old oil well,
ears clamped shut
with a musical flair of pink in a bush
of unkempt hair.
Thirteen and all balled up
like a tribble in a Star-Trek bin
rounded shoulders, head down tucked
nope, not, never
getting into her skin.
Already hiding behind the glass
of frames too big for her head,
legs crossed, sketchbook open
drawing the visions inside her instead.
Capped teeth with braces
if she only knew
[though she seemed to guess, I’m sure]
lots of strut was needed, swagger, panache
all of which
she abhorred.
Off she’s gone behind lashes of woe
brought on by who knows what, or who?
Like an old oil well, she sits and waits
that is unless she blows?
Ears clamped shut blaring bloody what,
who knew?
Not pretty in pink, not petite, or polite
do you know her I do.
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