And the words spew, each keyboard click
crafting another shoddy speck of line.
I attempt to ignore the prospect of
an untested audience, musings so simple,
uncluttered.
Laughing teeth and arching eyebrows
mock me, and I imagine the Spacek stare,
far more memorable than the color dripping from her hair.
Those bulging eyes. Pupils flash their
death glare,
and with a happy sigh, I lean back from my labors to
wait peacefully for the onslaught to begin, envisioning
chaise lounge, martini in hand, fluffy pink slippers to
hide manicured toes, a knowing smile, and
pale blush robe that matches the dress
frozen on a remembered stage.
