BARBIE ON THE ROOF
All fall, all winter long, you lie leftover
from summer, your flaxen hair
daring the glare of sun, the flare up
of wind, and now the wet blue tattoo
of rain gone down dawn drains, gone
yawning into history like the Barbie
a boy gift-lists for Christmas because
his GI Joe is lonely. Only you know what
true competition is like, how slowly
the sleazy ho look has crept in to pop
your pink bubble, to cripple your sales,
to push you into clothes nobody knows
except the Weather Woman, the Boogie
Man’s faithful shoulder to cry on.
All fall, all winter long, you lie leftover.
Al Young
Copyright © 2008
