Blond, bedraggled tresses on tense, tilted head
Receive the crowning of tiara besprent and bejeweled with sparkling beryl and cloistered pearls.
Moist, nervous hands awkwardly retrieve, tied within a white bow,
A sprinkling of perky baby's breath and twelve ferned, tired roses.
Bright, luminous lights flash and snap succinctly into unbelieving tissue-dabbed eyes.
Now flaunting last year's gown, the bedizened production from a sale at Louis,
And just hours ago, head shampooed and pin curled,
A besot Cinderella, mop and broom in hand,
Fashioned in grubby Mother Hubbard, faded and safety-pinned,
Had scrubbed and rubbed areas of dirt and grime,
Cob-webs in corners, bath tub rings
And dirty, bedaubed litter boxes.
Drudgery befits beauty and the lunacy of superfluous show
As a beauteous butterfly flees its degenerate cacoon
And for just fleeting moments of beatification,
She escapes her functional, dedicated life.
By: Frances Jean Gildersleeve-Beaupre'