With all her funny pomp,

Else puts her solemn face in place

before her looking-glass, says cheese and

glides out to the ball.

Her lips, of course, in

pink, her lids in blue; her latest

lashes black, gold-splashed, curled slyly like

flies’ legs with no fly.

And, below the muss,

Correctly fair, her nice fawn suit;

fairly correct, black patent heels which

scuff dull but still smile.

You don’t know Else, though,

by her ceremony; only

she knows who she really is: is

she a queen or Else?





Copyright: Richard Fox 1974

All rights reserved


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