Upon the boutique sidewalk, I
stumble upon a man- or
is it a woman? The dark and
defined makeup surrounds the black
pupils set in stone marble eyes.
The perfectly defined Adams apple sits tucked
under the creamy white face adorned
with chiseled cheekbones, contoured
and glowing. I wonder
what he sees sitting on his perch,
unable to move. We bustle and groan,
rush around like spawning salmon-
but you, your plastic skin still reeks
of chemicals produced in assembly
lines, people machines. Your
cheekbones deceive me, your slim,
lean legs lack the delicate fibers that
give legs meaning. You represent facades
and images endorsed, societal projections.
Who gets to decide
what ideal looks like?