Silver eyeshadow and a blush; smack lips
and sway hips. The nail file's on overtime
and the glitter's out sick. Snap bra strap,
winking at the mirror; stars could get lost
in this cleavage, and these cups could be
flowerpots for a healthy crop of petunias
or baskets for hot air balloons, if I chose.
Tonight I'm juxtaposing crepe with Lycra;
all those stubborn parts sedated, yielding
like cats before the leap. Skirt the colour
and size of a blackbird's wing and knickers
tight enough to make me sing. Peep show
smile; big hairstyle. Just the faintest smell
of wine. And I close the phone booth door
without a single sound:
tonight I don't fear Kryptonite.
I'm going on the town.