Mannequins in a Perfect World

 

On soft chairs they wait. Dark strands

of unwashed vinyl hair; clean follicles strung

with gold, a color in every woman's eyes.

 

Empty light fades in worn cloth under hands

on arm rests woven with time unraveling:

 

a fleshy palm hidden when a woman is unsure.

 

Ebony and bronzed shoulders touch all faces,

more shadows; eyes plunging from unchanging

gazes from inside a hard plastic shell.

 

In a perfect world they wear other shadows

falling across storefront windows; glass souls

tinted for UV diversity.

 

Long legs rhyme with yesterday, as in pink is

the new black.

 

They walk black streets. Without white children

their taut bellies feed dark wombs.