This poem also took me about 10 minutes total to compose so bring on the Constructive Criticism. I've seen a lot of these types of women since starting to work at the airport. At first, they are off-putting, but now I see that they are just people. Maybe even sad people.
Curious to be someone else today.
To be pressed, and coiffured
and assembled together,
with every accessory matching
the face painted on,
What thoughts go on underneath that creaseless brow
and perfectly golden weaved hair?
Her silver, sequined tank-top,
and gold-studded ears.
The channel handbag and Ralph Lauren fitted jeans
that demand respect
and a sugar-free, skim milk latte.
What does she think about her life?
Who asks her about her day?
Who loves her soul
masked by outward perfection?