A made-up girl.
I think she wasn’t born.
I think she was made up
from a media blueprint.
I think she’s just a TV ad
that came off the screen and onto the street.
A fashion plate.
I’m sure she’s synthetic.
I’m sure they fabricated her
to show the latest look.
I’m sure they glued the newest clothes
to the current make-up and hair, and there she was.
A perfect ‘10’.
I know she can’t be real.
I know she’s only transient
with nothing on the inside.
I know that in six months
she’ll be gone. Replaced by the new model.
(First published in Demented Bliss, Central Coast Poetry Society, Queensland 1990)