Bessie's Song

by Christine Zappella, from US

I saw her walking today,
skipping actually,
with a lavender ribbon in her long, black hair,
that matched the color of her woolen cardigan.
She bounced her way up to a van parked on the curb-
throwing me a smile, flashing her straight, white grin as she did-
and began talking to the men inside.

So cute,
so pretty,
so perfectly two dimensional.

And I wondered,
being the cynic I am,
if she really is as exquisite as she appears.

Could she possibly really be that happy?
That flawless?

Does she think her slender legs
and toned frame
are too skinny?

Does she hide behind her brown eyes
and superfluous words?

Maybe she does have something important to say,
something profound
and moving.

Maybe she engages in rhetoric with great thinkers,
goes to art galleries,
enjoys the LSO's version of Mahller's Ninth.

Perhaps when it's warm out,
she goes to Washington Square Park and sits in the fountain,
writing poetry,
reading Shakespeare.

Maybe she's as insecure as I am,
and wonders why people would rather see her
shake her pom-poms
than question the validity of an existence without meaning.

Maybe she wishes she was me.

She can't be that ignorant.