Peak Flair

Poetry

Lorely Hassman

Instead of first-period, me and her would ride peak fare

with empty pockets and a lust for flair

and we would bob our fruity-pebbled hair to Britney,

Madonna, and Cher Lloyd…

The epitome of 15-year-old sex-appeal

Strutting out of Penn with foul-flavored

gummies suctioned against our

still plump cheeks

Mesh tops and plum lips don’t matter here as long

as you keep your head straight—

Past the man mumbling Dutch,

frowning at your all-American tongue,

past the man choking his girl in front of NYPD,

and past the man floundering about,

throwing punches at mobsters as visible as

our self-respect

It don’t matter.

What matters is we need dresses, makeup,

shoes—the whole shebang

We cram lipstick into our clearance section bras,

shove tube tops in the waistband of

coffee-stained sweats,

and thrust Macy’s heels into Urban purses

displayed without a sensor. Big mistake.

We make our rounds like mice

gathering coffee-cake crumbs…

unappetized by tasteless oats

and we bounce with a bravado as our tiny bags

stretch with hundreds of dollars of capitalistic greed.

Shoddy heels knock into each other like vindictive

whores with silhouettes as synthetic as

cherry-flavored condoms

…

Back at Penn, we wipe the dark off our lips

and text our parents:

“Class just ended. Be home in 20”