American Bovary (The Cosmetician)

Zip code sans abode: for one, one won one
yet lost all heart in Cleveland, where Madam
X, one’s spouse, made it big to then make off
with a dollhouse manufacturer from
Versailles. “Forsooth,” her lover crooned to her,
“you learn how false true love when you face the
truth,” truth being the manufacturer
sooner than later would fracture his skull,
ramming headboard to topple wall, crying,
“Qui vive!” over his living doll, her rouge
powdered cheeks, those coarse, horsehair lashes
open suddenly, as up she rose, too
nonchalant just for lust, but wantonness
more blind than a pair of glass eyes combined.
Looking down, she loathes her frog prince’s drool,
kit, and caboodle; knows she ought haul tail,
jiggle and cleavage, to Cleveland; recant
in grand style to an emasculated
husband; then don her own wand for love of
green bred of her black magic, instead of
funds bled pure white, the spit and miss of spite.
Economics masked in histrionics,
dogged with life in a mirror, poodle turns
cat staring back as if groomed to scratch the
bitch, her itch gone south, home, to her own kind
à la KY, where, for one, one ate one.