wiping the war paint from her face

from the next room you can hear
zz top waiting for the bus
and jesus just left
as she bends at the waist
two shots deep
singly
over her dual sink vanity
chrome swans bringing forth water
at the wave of her hand
mirror caressing bare shoulders
bra burned for the day
barefoot on sage bath mat
spaghetti strap t-shirt remains
she begins to take comfort in her ritual
wiping the war paint from her face
with a warm wet cloth
she applies witch hazel
and an organic hawaiian
monkey torture free moisturizer
bottled at the source
between the muscular thighs
of almost samoan men in grass skirts
she smiles knowing
she’s polishing the brass on the titanic
that wrinkle free faces are mythology
head rising to meets her own gaze
happily
having survived another day
with a poet’s heart beating inside her