all the women look achingly
immaculate, and
the rustle of
a thousand plastic packages
make me want to cry
I go to
say something
to my boyfriend
but he's plugged into a screen I
can't see,
wrestling with the cord
that plays leash to the remote control.
they give us
tiny plastic bags
filled with tiny plastic toothbrushes
and there are more plastic toothbrushes
in plastic bags
in the plastic bathroom
but the women look so achingly
beautiful; their cheeks flushed
a perfect pink
and their ritually rehearsed performance
absorbs even my eyes
- after all, I've also
paid for it.
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