Manicure
I place myself in your hands.You look at my fingertips and sigh wryly.
Take up your instruments and lotions and
Begin the shaping of nails, with bufferings.
With ragged tuts you make my cuticles cute.
You paint the desired shapes a flesh hue.
But it is a pale flesh and mine now is sun baked.
I feel as if my fingertips are perishing
As I try to remember some man I cured
Of needing primped and dainty.
Perhaps I needed scarlet.
Poetry by jenks
Read 1184 times
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Written on 2015-08-04 at 03:12
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