Ms. Hollywood 1963 -

She wakes groping her mattress.
Fumbling, she tugs her nightshades off
to find her commissioned lover gone.
A queasy uneasy feeling ensues,
warm pink gelatin after a quake.
Trembling, she sits lights a
European fag. Inhaling deeply
exhaling slowly hoping her coca jitters
go with the smoke. Eleven,
too early to rise, too early to dial a smile,
and way too soon to start a cry.
Scared and smoking she finds her way
through her home, feels a marble wall,
screams into a mike. "Juanita, dame un mocha!"
Still scared, still smoking,
she takes a line to her boudoir
in tune to her silk chemise sliding across
her Persian rug. Under a crescent waterfall
jetting rain runs yesterday's film
and this morning's bleached strands away.
Twelve noon, sunny afternoon.
"Sven will be here, he'll buff my abs,
he'll trim my buns. I'll be new,
blonde, - beautiful in blue."
Sipping, dragging, sniffing.
Java, smoke, and powdered aspirin,
old patrons in her Parisian styled room.
Inside her rumbling cellar,
dessert is settling - gelling.
She's okay, she is fine, was just,
a slight bit tight. She can take it.
She can kick it. She can handle
the emptiness, the loneliness,
the nothingness
that hangs with success.
A keepsake smile parts her dabbed red lips.
It's Friday, her gold card day.
She sips her mocha, fans smoke away,
powders her nose.