prologue to prom

If any 6.5 size heels come roaming around in the next 2 hours,

if the post-campfire hair ever dries from the shampoo I over-lathered,

if we don't break our ankles under 70 degrees & if pizza is the lunch choice,

I think we should dance.

The dress is steamed and pressed, hanging in the doorframe,

with my hair in knots & a fogged mirror that feels something like Vogue.

I made eggs this morning with glasses on & cotton socks,

so Mama could wave perfume under my nose.

Except I'm still not Marilyn Monroe.

This whole house is like a dressing room with a mirror strung by giant, bright bulbs, 

but feathers aren't crowding and there's not a smooth-skinned girl applying red lipstick in it.

She was busy playing football with her boyfriend and skinning her knees on hot grass.

Let's pray you don't wear your Nikes at the hem of your linen suit,

even if the socks match & the pumps suffocate my toes,

and the white marble doors we dine behind make us feel like Beyonjay.

I never understood why the girls need three hours to put eyeshadow on.

Didn't you know that prom started this morning?

Prom didn't start this morning. 

It didn't even start with the two balloons you tied to the bush.

It started on a train, in the corner of H&M with a $5 shirt,

under rocky stars in a car while we waited for the trifecta to sneak out his window,

it started on a March night, the first night of summer, 

before science told us it was even spring.

This is a prologue for the middle of the story.