LADIES AND....

Ladies and ladies rooms is all I will say--I know we have all felt this way. I will let my poem speak for itself.

I don't care what anybody says about me as long as it isn't true.
Dorothy Parker

Ladies and…

I locked myself in a
pre-fabricated necessity where
lack of sealing exists;
I am peeing in the ladies
powder room and being a
bit voyeuristic.
I watch with one stalking eye
through the one eighth inch of
a crack, as I execute
my personal dealings, I
contemplate the acts that we
all are doing anonymously.

I observe a blond meticulously
putting on her berry lipstick;
the mirror reflects wrinkles
only she can see. I thought lines
on the face equaled experience.
I think she sees it differently.

A demure woman looks away
from the reflection in the mirror
as if she doesn't care and
lets the warm water and soap wash
her secrets away. She is not
a conversationalist in the all-
women’s hide-away.

The blonde's shiney lipstick is finished
and she turns for one more glance
checking on the tone of her ass.
I know
she thinks it is sagging
by her discriminating glance.

And then she hikes up her right cheek,
a natural ritual, a comforting dance and
she finishes with the push of the palm
into her stomach, smooths down her dress
and spins on her tip-toes no less,
and heads for the exit.

Does this make you thinner?
and any younger? Turn back the clocks of time?
I wonder. Or is it simply healthy for the self-esteem?
to block the effects of life.

I look for white squares of tissue from
the metal dispense to get my business
behind me and yet the ways of women
continue.

I cock my head lower and see
the demure hand washer mesmerized
by the final dance of
her counter partner.
She turns off the water and pulls out
too many paper towels,
she is lost somewhere in her trance.

She fumbles in her purse for
support and finds original Chapstick.
She leans on the counter, glamorously
and applies.
She pushes up her B cup breasts
and turns to check the rest.
She is startled by my fiddling,
and she starts speed walking
right out of there. I ask,
who can be normal?
in a place like this, with mirrors on
every wall.

Now I am alone, I flush and
slide the metal lock and open the door.
I admire the universal house of
four pink stalls in a row.
I head for the counter,
inspecting the splashy condition,
I do a little washing and wiping and then look into
the mirror.

I could use a little lipstick, maybe buy
a Victoria Secret push up, I know a part time
job at the gym as a spinning instructor would
do the trick and
all I can do is smile discreetly in the reflection
of the mirror at another woman who came through.

My internal monologue turns to many unanswered
questions, small talk that equals silence.
My sorority sister still acts like a stranger even
in our house of gossip.
I am giving it up. Leaving it to one of life’s
unsolved mysteries,
and head back to the party to discuss you.