At the end of the shopping street
for people who look like
they do in the magazines
there’s a blonde marching in place waiting
for the light to turn green.
She is not running per se, rather
she’s hinting at running.
Selling it, the way
Charlize Theron sells
a night to remember in a perfume commercial
with next to nothing for evidence.

Me, a tired mother,
and a tennis player with wet hair
stare at the blonde,
one more covertly than
the others.
I know not to tilt my head
when encounting something
in which the world tells me
I will never see myself.

There are so many things
that are perfect
about the blonde that I
get dizzy counting.
Even a thigh gap as big as hers
wouldn’t be able to hold
all the details.

At this point, the length,
and the waviness, and the glossiness,
and the readiness of her hair
are just a complete unnecessity.

We all hate her, the blonde.
Me, a tired mother,
and a tennis player with wet hair.
We hate her because
of all the little things
the world has denied us
the words to articulate.

We all hate her, the blonde,
and the blonde hates herself
a little, too,
for reasons so bafflingly
unimportant to us
she could die from jealousy.