She'd fiddled with her face,
applied a half a pound
of beige foundation from
La Maison de Charleroi,
two hefty blasts of bland déodorant,
smothered two nipples with
a serving of Chanel, numéro cinq,
removed the bags of ice beneath
the mammaries, which now stood firm,
lit candles made of real wax of bees,
poured into crystals a beloved Beaujolais.
There was a flash of news from ARD,
a plane had crashed into the river Somme,
windshear had crashed her plans
and cut the promise of a life to silly shreds.