Lipstick Today I bought a new lipstick, to replace the one I lost backstage at your choir concert. The old one was in a purple case, banded with plastic gold. The cover clicked on and off with a satisfying tug. It was frosted mocha brown. Revlon. They don't make it anymore. It fit perfectly into the leftover space of my favorite purse. It matched all of my other colors. However, I had to bring your REQUIEM score backstage, to your dressing room, where you screeched your thanks, angry and sarcastic in that captivating tenor. This new one is too dark of a brown. It looked all right in storelight, but here in day it washes out my eyes. The cover doesn't click at all, but hangs loosely about the shaft of the stick like a dirty, worn sock, or a pair of stretched boxers. Or a used condom.
Hannah Sassaman's Questions:
I'm not exactly sure how to format this poem. I've chosen the three line
stanzas pretty much arbitrarily. What kind of form might best emphasize the
emotional undertone I'm trying to express?
I would also appreciate any other comments about this work.