An Indomitable Grace

It’s easy to joke about true things,
especially when you’ve had enough sangria,
and though in jest I proclaimed,
“Fuck you! I’m glamorous,”
I know how all too often
I walk around with it stamped to my forehead:
conspicuous contempt.
I know because as I stand, waiting for
my paper to print, I won’t look at the girl
who’s staring at my outfit.
My blood red lips make a shape, dripping
with boredom,
as if being noticed is like watching a game of golf
on television.
I blankly stare at something,
not as if I’m interested, but so that my eyes
have something to do besides meet those
that are evaluating my teased ginger hair
and uncommonly outrageous outfit.
I know that almost no one else can pull off
white silk palazzo pants,
at least not people who are still alive.
So, while that girl
tries to decide if I’m one of the fashion program bitches,
or if I’m just insane,
I want to remove all doubt
that I am certainly both.
As I take my freshly printed pages
and walk by her, leaving the library,
I think to myself,
Fuck you.
I am glamorous.