The clotheshorse, old and scruffy holds
the array of her dresses. She needs them.
She needs them even more than foods
to satisfy her half empty stomach.
She will hush up her hunger and
say it is good for her figure. She needs
her figure too. So, she looks at
the hazy mirror at the small washroom.
Another day has been ill spent
in agent's office and damp back stages.
More cheap hands to roam about her.
Drinks that have been bought with an eye on prices.
Aspirins. Headaches. And blissful
passing outs into vague oblivion.
The left shoe lingers on her foot.
The other one in an odd slant remains
under her bed. She succumbs to
dreams, blue and gold and rainbow. Dreams of a break.