When I Find Out Hugh Hefner Died by Angela Readman

I am not a silent poet

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.

You tell…

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