The man in the first row says, Gimme a girl
who smokes red cigarettes while asking us
occupational questions. So I ash into his hat brim
& say, What do you do, sir? Do you like being profiled
by the entertainment police? The man hands me
his bowler and says, Gimme Liza in a backless vest
perched on top of a chair. So I draw him a picture
of a glam mantis gone to seed & bookmark
The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Here, I say,
will this satisfy your lust for Prague? A woman in back
says, Sorry, we meant Magritte. So I spackle my face
with sky-colored greasepaint. The third row says,
But we’re suckers for the phrase “candy apple red.”
Fuck it, I say. They glitter with sweat & applause.
Now, says the emcee, I will strap you into a torpedo
bra and staple you with flaming sheets of Prufrock.
Okay, I say, after the auto-da-fé will paper ephemera
be collected in my memory? My audience goes, Oh,
no, no, no, oh, no, but you will wake up & wonder,
“Where is that steamer trunk of my best vocabulary?”
and we will pretend not to know. I say, Audience,
O Audience! Why do you seek to destroy me?
The man in the first row says, This has become tiresome.
Give us the girl who smokes red cigarettes again.
Okay, I say, pass me the ashtray. That “ashtray,”
he harrumphs, happens to be my wife. The emcee says,
Give us a French doll with removable britches!
So I put on the Black Bottom & crisscross my lavender
stockings. Look at me, I say. My articulated parts move!
A silence. The woman in back says, It’s just that
you make us all very uncomfortable.