Makeup Babies
Makeup babies dressing in purple shoes
And strapping holy hand grenades to their
Swinging, shapeless, awkward, bony, square hips.
Their hearts are being gift wrapped in slick plastic,
Their souls are now bound in magazine pages,
Their eyes are scaled over with TV glasses.
For this year and that year they’ll hold this pose,
Until later when they’ll burst from the sack
And whip their heads frantically left and right.
They will peer at the sun, glance at the world,
And hope, wistfully, that life will slow down.
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