We spill yellow splenda packets
into black coffee, sip
through tight mouths, keep
our fingernails clipped to
reasonable lengths. Drum them against the
plastic blue of the 6 train. Oh
Manhattanite girls, how much
we haven't seemed to change; this is
one big game of dress-up. I line
my closet with sensible sling-backs.
And this morning meditation, this
dark rumble to lectures and
cubicled internships, a tea party where we've
traded up to insolated travel mugs but I still
feel like I'm pretending.
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