She swept into the new Chanel boutique,
and loudly, with peremptory hauteur,
declared she’d come specifically to seek
my guidance as a makeup artist. Her
betrothal had been recently announced,
and her intended was a man of means;
her gown a Vera Wang — off-white, and flounced.
(Her mouth a sneer, her eyes two small brown beans.)
I sat her down and tried to camouflage
her ugliness. I truly did my best.
She clearly loathed my skillful maquillage,
and, sighing, said, “What else can you suggest?”
I said, “You need a Paris-bound Concorde,
and then an urgent pilgrimage to Lourdes.”