by Megan Anne Metzelaar
The plastic lady implores me to care
Through the camera,
Mournful imitations seep into my living room,
Belying adrenaline rushing her veins,
Purple like mine, but
Hidden beneath alabaster skin,
A face pulled tight.
Stories like these bought designer shoes,
Expensive leather purses,
Lunch at Tavern on Green.
Voice lifting to the next octave,
She tells about the old man,
Paralyzed in the street, a hit and run,
Onlookers contemplating too long
Whether to step an inch closer.
They did not step closer.
Warning: video is disturbing.
Tape rolls, her feigned sighs the
Accompaniment, contrived music
Learned through years of practice.
The voyeur crowd could be her relatives,
A family of frozen white-ice people
Far removed from the nobler instincts.
She secretly likes them, The Plastics,
No matter what she says,
And would have stood among them
On the sidewalk,
Looking at the crumpled man
Through the crowd of her familiars,
Wondering who would be
Her first interview.
Megan Anne Metzelaar rescues wayward animals when she is not writing.
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