by Thomas D. Favors

The putrid smell of too much perfume.               
The cold air conditioning on hard concrete floors.  
All the light focused on one center of the room,    
as if draw to a single, white, spot.                
While darkness hides other forms                    
of man and machine lurking, moving in the dark.     
The disgusting perfume poisons the taste of the air.
A face emerges.                                     
A pretty face.                                      
A woman.                                            
How is this woman?                                  
Smiling moronically in front of the camera          
trying to sell her looks to persuade the foolish    
into buying perfume they do not need.               
Why is this woman?                                  
Does she do such degrading work for the fun,        
the money,                                          
or does she really believe in it?                   
Where is this woman?                                
In a studio in California,                          
or in a run down shot-gun shack in lower Manhattan. 
Does it really matter?                              
Who is this woman?                                  
Does she have family, friends, problems,            
or traits who make her who she is?                  
When is this women?                                 
What year, what day, what month, what hour.         
How, why, where, when, and whom?                    
Do we care?                                         
Do we?                                              
No, as long as she has                              
a pretty face.                                      

Copyright 1999 Thomas D. Favors