Stepmother

She's climbing the granite steps of the courthouse
in black stiletto heels. Midway, she totters,
leans heavily on her "chauffeur', looks up
vulnerable and dazed and triumphant:
cameras click, roll… Cyclamen lipstick;
midnight-blue mascara; her lashes are mink
to match her coat. She blinks furiously —
working to keep those eyes wide-open.
At the top, a pause to breathe, seize a last
photo-opportunity — supernovas
halo that wicked smile. One of her cheeks,
contused with rouge, displays a beauty mark;
she carries, of course, a crocodile handbag:
the mirror inside it has long been silent…
Unnoticed by her, a scarlet talon
has worked its way through the index finger
of her left black glove: as she turns to make
a V-sign, five networks catch it in close-up.
A sudden gust uncurls a lock of grey
partly disguised as auburn. She clutches
the skins of fifty minks and blurrily
surveys the scene — she has her point of view,
her lawyers. After the acquittal, she'll sue
the hell out of them all, make a million.