The people in my magazine
are different than they used to be.
Models in suede and labelled attire,
branded like cattle-
it's sad, really.

I don't need someone slapping a logo
across my breast to feel important.

I'm expecting to see one of these girls
lift up her skirt to show milky white-
and somewhere south of the naughty-bits
you see a big U.S. official FDA grading stamp
pressed, red ink on perfect, unblemished flesh.

all of these adds for cremes and powers
to make your skin smooth and youthful-
am I wrinkled beyond repair,
at eighteen?

I never thought of myself as the
"Miss America" type-
am I too late to save
this perfect, cardboard image
of the "All-American" girl that I
somehow neglected to be?

If I buy the age-defying creme,
will I turn back the clock-
I think not.
Will I jam its gears,
prevent them from turning?
I think not.
Should I follow
ever fashion "do" and "dont"?

I'm torn-
between the real me
and the cover of the magazine...



 
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