It’s December, a small town up North,
almost dark at 3.30. The street is a calendar
of women trudging in after work, carrying
groceries and turning on the lamps.
Sandra’s waiting outside, bunny ears pinned
to her head and a plastic martini glass
glued to a tray in her hand. It’s freezing,
but we flash open our coats, revealing the costumes
our mothers made – my pinecone dress,
her leotard and fishnet tights. I know nothing
about mansions, I only know we are six.
And I’ll see that bunnygirl walk tip toe
all through the party, pinning on her tail
every few minutes, boys grabbing, cotton everywhere.
I see those rabbit ears get so stroked so often
the plastic starts to poke out of the velvet like a fang,
and still my friend keeps laughing, picking wisps
of who she’ll be when she grows up off the floor.
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