Every so often I overhear a conversation so insipid that I have to write about it to get the memory of it out of my brain and somewhere else into the world where it will do less damage. Hopefully less damage. So a very rough poem, inspired by something I needed to process and forget.
One-Eighth
Her hair is a short pixie cut,
black as night with glittery stars.
“I want a job that pays me well,
but my degree was too much work.”
Pinterest page has fifty boards.
Maybe thirty. Too hard to count.
“My dog must have ADHD,
he never does what I tell him.”
Her resume brags of her skills
at typing in Microsoft Word.
“My followers like my designs.
Not my work, just stuff I pinned.”
Spends two hours a day doing her hair,
hour each day Pinning and Liking.
“I never have time to have fun,
I am so busy doing things.”
Eighth of each day putting on faces,
For people who will never see past the masks.