The women stand,
legs like rows of cedars.
Some slender, lean.
Some curved thick stems.
Elbows resting,
they vie for the mirror
in a vulgar attempt
to paint beauty
like it could be constructed
with two hands and tubes
of tints.
Their talk is a foreign dialect,
nonsense!
They call those outside,
whores, and each other,
amongst themselves,
after one leaves the room.
They are animals
in high heels and short skirts,
Blow-dried hair,
bottle tans.
I hide, feet up in the stall.
Listen to each new stock
come in rotations.
Always the same garish
squeals.
