Peacock

Strutting like a peacock
She glances across the room
Her shining turquoise sequenced
dress dragging on the floor

Her eyelashes, longer than natural
are thick black spiderwebs
that fall over her rouged cheekbones

Her lips grotesquely thick
and as maroon as dried blood,
mouth the words to the
song playing on the stage

A smudge of lipstick covers her
pearly white uneven teeth
She is oblivious

The carefully placed mole
stays in place like the
corpse of the legend who
made it famous

Her blonde wig sits on her
head like a mop used
to clean up the dust
from dirty corners

The ends of her
fingers pasted with
fire engine red
nails that are forced on,
skew, in a hurry

Rings of gaudy costume
jewels shoved onto
her bony, thin fingers
twinkle in the light
as she twirls her
hands above her head

She dances with wild
abandon, kicking her
legs and shaking
like a voodoo priestess
her arms flailing all around her
like a mad woman

Then
The music ends
The crowd applaudes
The lights fade
And she walks away

Charles folds his alter ego,

and hides in the cupboard,

waiting for the next evening