[SingularNYCFemme]

A child stands
rouged with a bouffant
that could only come from hell

She is static as a deer
caught in the headlights
on a deserted country road

As one parent works away the years
in a foundry hot as the hell
from which this child's hair was created

The other parent takes latitude
and with lassitude appalling
believes cheap glamour a blessing

The small girl
trapped within someone else's dream
learns how to blow the audience
a wise and ancient
kiss

And who I write like, according to www.iwl.me? Vladimir Nabokov...