Anna

I’d love to watch you dress up.
Make up.
Red pumps and a matching purse.
You’re a highlife girl.
Lips smeared with the glory of the stage and flashing lights.

I

Am your muse….

The scent of old fashioned perfume with
Your garters and stockings,
Classy, still   

Even as they hit the floor,
For one admirer, than the next.

Only you could wear that blue dress.
In that way.
Turning something simple
Into a gesture so obscene.

My little starlet.
Balancing on the balcony of fame
And folly
One day we’ll all be

Longing for thee.

.

.

.

.

* I rarely write poetry. This is from when I was fourteen years old.

Anna

I’d love to watch you dress up.
Make up.
Red pumps and a matching purse.
You’re a highlife girl.
Lips smeared with the glory of the stage and flashing lights.
I…
Am your muse.

The scent of old fashioned perfume with
Your garters and stockings
Classy, still
Even as they hit the floor
 For one admirer, than the next.

Only you could wear that blue dress
In that way.
Turning something simple
 Into a gesture so obscene.


My little starlet.
Balancing on the balcony of fame
And folly
One day we’ll all be
Longing for thee.