A Glamor

Nightgown over her head, she climbs into bed.

Sunscreen smeared on, foundation applied,

a little darkening to the eyebrows—

She flicks off the light, her bedtime reading done,

closes her eyes. Sleep time has begun.

Draws eyeliner close to the lashes,

follows with deep black mascara

to lengthen eyetresses—

Lipliner next, outlines them well,

then fills in the shell.

Wait, a missed hair, out of place—

she wraps her head in a band of lace.

There: perfect face, painted so pretty.

But gimme sleep, quiet the ditty,

looping round and round, never witty.

She lays her head on the satin pillow,

but a poem sprouts forth

now after midnight – what is time, and does it matter?

Time to sleep? Oh hell, she thinks, and

removes the eyemask, splashes cold water

across her face, her

eyes clean, all makeup erased.

Woman's brain is all jumpy, slow to succumb.

Tomorrow she’ll forget the poem, and

forty winks still won’t come.

Hair in knots, she leaves the lace on the makeup-stained pillow,

and hops in a taxi, going to head up the meeting,

slippers on her feet, nightie tucked into trousers—

scribbling a ditty on a legal pad

under the taxi dome light.

Pulling up to the curb, she hands the driver

her Sephora rewards card.

As those UGG slippers hit the street, the Chanel lipliner

rolls under the cab.

She falls, reaching for it, then

the driver flips that wrong card at her head.

She sees him rifle through her black patent purse;

it's overflowing with pens, lipstick, and old Ambien pills.

The side mirror reflects an unmade face,

absent any glamour on her visage.

“Fuck it,” she yells. “Thanks for the ride.”

Copyright © 5/26/2026 by Andrea O. Corwin

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