It’s like putting a rose in a pig’s ass

my father used to say about

futile attempts at beauty:

lipstick fails and frazzled perms,

skirts flounced over fatty thighs,

worlds of never had, of wannabe,

of ought-to-know-better.

My thought pig had pale pink skin,

assertive snout, shrewd eyes,

an unselfconscious sphincter

clenching one slender stem,

its unfurled scarlet bud

proclaiming that every part

of a body should shout, rejoice,

flaunt beauty as a birthright.

What are you looking for?