She arrives at the nightclub
wearing a black leather
bulky boy’s jacket with
plenty of silver zippers
combined with shiny high-heeled
pumps on slender heels
trending white bobby socks
(she drives me crazy).
She removes her jacket,
sparks flying, and reveals a
tight velvet bodice,
fitted waist,
flaring skirt,
sprinkled with shooting
stars and rhinestones
(she drives me crazy).
Silver sparkles on black tiffany,
raised up high to bare thighs–
a mini-tutu, pirouettes and performs.
Puffed stiff tule
on the catwalk.
Madonna. Hollywood. Tabloid.
(She drives me crazy and
I can’t help myself.)
She’s dancing and confetti’s pouring
from the ceiling. Bodies moving.
Wine bubbles burst in her head.
Poof. Gone. Fingers point.
Your 20s are over.
Get serious, birthday girl.
No more room to falter and fail,
to try out this or that other one.
Youth, brief and wasted.
(She drives me crazy…)
But, she’s not single.
She’s not a star.
She’s just a woman,
holding on to …
an image of a free-spirited,
head-turning, 20-something girl.
She’s on location. Making movies.
(She drives me crazy.)
She spun around (a birthday girl) in
colorful confetti swirls,
touched her wet face,
and found colorful tissues.
© 2017 Cynthia Pittmann
About this poem:
People try on different personas throughout life but we’re not always aware of their fiction. The poem shows the confrontation of one such persona with reality. Even the most self-aware person can be caught in the dream of image and personality. Unconscious expectations about age often surface at milestone birthdays, even when we profess that age is not a limitation.
YouTube: “She Drives Me Crazy”