Blond, bedraggled tresses on tense, tilted head

Receive the crowning of tiara besprent and bejeweled with sparkling beryl and cloistered pearls.

Moist, nervous hands awkwardly retrieve, tied within a white bow,

A sprinkling of perky baby's breath and twelve ferned, tired roses.

Bright, luminous lights flash and snap succinctly into unbelieving tissue-dabbed eyes.

Now flaunting last year's gown, the bedizened production from a sale at Louis,

And just hours ago, head shampooed and pin curled,

A besot Cinderella, mop and broom in hand,

Fashioned in grubby Mother Hubbard, faded and safety-pinned,

Had scrubbed and rubbed areas of dirt and grime,

Cob-webs in corners, bath tub rings

And dirty, bedaubed litter boxes.

Drudgery befits beauty and the lunacy of superfluous show

As a beauteous butterfly flees its degenerate cacoon

And for just fleeting moments of beatification,

She escapes her functional, dedicated life.

By: Frances Jean Gildersleeve-Beaupre'