Classic Poem

Here is the queen
getting ready for a party.
He stands in the bathroom
pinning a flower in his hair.
It is a silk rose.
He touches his collarbone —
ascertains its definition:
He will wear something
with a low front.
At the mirror
he powders his face.
He surveys it like virgin land
ready for development.
He pencils thin brows
and views his progress.
There's a lot to do.
Our queen must leave in five minutes.
He adds green to the eyelids
finds the rouge and colors
the white base.
The queen stands back:
He darkens the lips.
He decides the rose is too much
and adds rhinestone clips.
It's starting to work.
The eyes darken —
lines are extended.
Quick dabs of sandalwood
at the wrist, elbow and neck —
It's getting hot .
A vamp replaces the country lass
(not for the first or last time).
One minute to touch down
the queen slips into a white satin dress
and brushes his hair
away from his face.
Transformation is complete.
A creature of the night
ready to enter the neon arena
picks up the raincoat
throws it over the satin dress
and trips out the door
on his way toward the glory of sidewalks
and the light of passing cars.
Out on the street
the queen moves between lamplight
and shadows
as if drawn to a magnet
invisible to the naked eye.
If you listen carefully
you can hear the rustle of a gown
on castle stairs —
the wheels of imaginary carriages
rattling along cobblestone streets
toward a fatal rendez-vous.
The queen cruises past the donut shop.
His legs — inside the satin gown —
are coming alive.
His body is electric again
he is living cinema —
only distantly related
to this century.