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.
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