Smoke and Mirrors
She drives home, her hands on her face
She dreams of running, standing still in a dark place
filled with mirrors -- their light has burned her charcoal grey
How many evening gowns it takes to get her through a day?

Her closet's full of snakes and roaches
Every morning sweating, climbing closed-eyed, hearing the reproaches
waiting for her in the checkout line
She grabs her bottled water, feels the steep incline

  Smoke and Mirrors - is all she wants to be
  to join the printed pages and the mocking TV

His arms are frozen inches from her
his loving words have drowned in endless hours of summer
days and nights of tightlipped smiles; she wasn't there
to hear him asking, pleading with the empty air

Catherine's sainthood still eludes her
She grits her teeth as Oscars' night occludes her 
once again it's back to baggy sweatshirts across her lawn
Her treadmill faces TV faces Cheshire-grinning, bodies gone


    She's falling
    She's falling down to a place where love is never free
    She's rising 
    She's rising up from the twisted wreckage of a magazine

Her lunch is tainted with the scent of despair and relentless drive
her friends may faintly wonder what's behind her stare looking half-alive
No money in the world could ever make her what she wants
Mineral water, soda crackers eaten in fine restaurants


 She'll never be just what she sees;
 She'll never be what she sees around her,
 not in a million years,
 she'll never be it in this world...
© 2002 Adam Hirsch.