The Princess And The Pea
I wear a ruffle of applause
like feathers round my neck,
which is satin, frankly.
I'd rather that you didn't tinker
with the silver catch in my throat.
For an hour now, the limelight
has lingered on me,
bruising the skin of my eyelids.
My hair was braided by sticklers
who dared not draw breath
until I was finished.
Perhaps you have never sketched
a figure so perfect. No, absolutely.
I intend to spend my declining
years on the lip of this stage,
knocking back perfume
neat from the bottle, too,
and before your oblivious eyes.