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.