Leave It

The gust of wind from the taxi lifted my skirt a little. It killed a fascination of mine. It does that quite often. More than not, he is the driver, although lately I've found myself behind the wheel.
That is my excuse.
I am a little girl who stands in front of a mirror.
Shut up and be pretty.
It paints my lips.
It becomes an automobile,
gliding across my eyelashes
rougeing my cheeks
I stand there in the mirror, silent.
Am I also pretty?
It drives me.
It drives my legs into their stockings
and my eyes around the bed.
Listening to a constant thud in my ear.
That.
The chauffer once ripped That from me
unconciously,
as one rips a napkin.
And he left it there.