Fabulous.

[branwyn]

Fabulous

He must be
Seventy
Maybe seventy-five
His make-up caked
In his deep wrinkles
It’s the wrong colour
For his skin
And his blush
Too bright
Like an old woman in her Sunday best.
Fitting, I guess.
His dress is long
To the ankles
And ugly
A flowered box
Of heavy cloth
Like a school-marm from the 50’s.
Maybe he was.
She was?
Just missing the dark,
Thick-rimmed
Cat’s-eye glasses
But it’s easy to imagine
From his eyeliner
Clumsily applied
With his man’s hands
And his mascara
Running
Tears glinting in the sun
Pooling in the corners
Of his smile -
The only thing
That lies about his age -
As he watches
With Pride
(And longing)
At the leather-bound muscle-men
And the feather-clad lady-men
That he could never have been
Back then
When he was still strong
And beautiful
And young like them.
And they may think
That they know freedom
But they still wince
When they see him
For he is not
"Fabulous Enough"
For their celebration
But he smiles
And envies them
And pities them, for
Despite this festival-fight
Their protest-party
They simply
Can’t understand
That no one
Has ever been
More fabulous.

-Dan Desveaux

(Inspired by my response to Bucktown Tiger's comment in my post about Pride.)

B.