Monday, March 09, 2009
Photo from the Internet
So, Barbie turns fifty
the day before I turn
I never knew her,
never envied her perky breasts
her long legs, her blonde hair.
She came along too late for me,
too late to care about her and Ken,
her fancy little convertibles, her hot bikinis,
all those cool accessories--so fashionable, so fun.
She did call to me, a few years later,
from my daughter's toybox
where she'd been unceremoniously dumped,
but her smile? It never waivered.
Now, at fifty, the breasts are the same,
the hair equally big, the legs equally long.
Where are the stretch marks,
the crowfeet, the springy, graying hair?
How is her cholesterol? Her hormones?
Is Ken on Viagra?
Is her convertible environmentally acceptable,
good gas mileage?
Is she anatomically and politically correct?
There are one billion Barbies
currently in this world.
Indestructible--a nation of plastic hearts
cheerful, unbroken--poised to live forever,
be discovered by future archaeologists,
astonished by this tribe of long-legged goddesses
and one or two Kens.