They are all
plastic pearls and sequin tiaras,
twinkling tulle skirts afloat
on the sea of pavement,
battery-powered magic wands
flashing kaleidoscopic
upon topiary hedges
manicured into griffins and unicorns.
They dance and twirl, oblivious
to smudged streams of passersby,
an impressionist backdrop
for an asphalt courtyard
beneath clacking vinyl heels.
Little princesses, when you retire to your cotton candy pillows
and shimmering sheets,
clutch your glittering wands and
hold fast to your virginity.
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