Rush Week by Dylan Robinson

She’s strutting down the street like construction had her in mind; like her heels were built for

concrete.

Depression has never tasted that strawberry blonde. Anxiety has never kissed that Cherry

Chapstick.

–I’d bet my last dime on that.

 

She’s just happy to be young and beautiful.

 

Condescending slurs whistle through those teeth.

Heels smacking forked shoes slam home an auditory beating.

 

Polished pearls built into false smiles keep greedy eyes company.

 

She’s wearing yellow, swallowed by a mob of harpy clones.

Forced laughs and gossip echo across a studio’s meadow.

 

They’re starving. You can tell because the laughs and prude speech hits a mezzo forte.

They’re appalled. You can tell because the swarm has been playing their part, but there’s no

applause.

They’re migrating.

They’ll make their own ovation.

 

The flurried clack and scuff of chiseled heels escorts them from the street.

 

Such a performance…

No bow?

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Categories: Issue 1 - Fall 2011, Periodicals, Poetry | Leave a comment

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