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| Self portrait of that lady |
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She looks into the mirror
And the face she sees behind
Marks the canvas for the portrait
Of a lady, well refined.
She applies a paste, foundation first;
The undercoat, the base,
Her creamy fingers kneading out
The history of her face.
She uses anti-wrinkle cream
That doesn’t miss a spot –
It doesn’t hold as long
When the weather gets too hot.
In winter, though, dressed up,
She is a vision to behold:
The suited CEO who feels
Safe when she is cold.
Employees watch her eagerly;
They’re hoping she will love them –
They all work hard to please
And never feel she’s above them.
And at six she departs
Feeling tired but content,
Singing, with the radio,
From Sussex into Kent.
She parks at seven-twenty
And by seven-twenty-four,
The secret vow of married life
Has all but cracked her jaw.
Blood – spattered on the carpet;
Her cheek smarts; red and blue.
“I’m sorry I was late,” she calls.
“I’m going to the loo.”
She struggles to the bathroom,
She sees her broken face,
But she cannot shed a tear –
This is not the time or place.
A certain satisfaction
Accompanies the pain,
As yet again, in less than ten,
She covers up the stain.
“You look lovely,” he says.
“Thank you.”
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