I’m not stupid.
Sure, I chew gum,
my hair’s a blonde fire,
I walk in French curves,
I laugh on cue,
and my laugh is a stupid laugh.
I never get it,
what those small violent men
do to flesh.
I never got it.
I’m the three monkeys in one.
Oh, I get my dresses,
my perfoom, my endless drinks;
and I drink until I finally talk back.
Then the open hand flies
and a red negative explodes in my head.
Dependably ditzy,
always available,
he leans on me
more than I on him
as we saunter
to the hotel.
Endlessly replaceable,
uniquely the same,
I am moll.
And the movie-goers
miss my real name
as the credits roll.
