being the best
Three day unwashed hands gripping disposable Kodak cameras
While fantasies of the alluring celebrity existence,
they'll never know,
Swims through their minds.
The red carpet reaches endlessly forward.
Limousine oreo cookies are formed.
Passengers mysteriously hidden
behind tinted windows
From the fans that are the reason they're there.
Gliding down the red on clouds
of couture gowns and designer diamonds
glitter, glitter everywhere.
Hysterical screams are heard
From the other side of the tracks
And the stars pose-
Left foot a little forward, lean back ever so slightly, arms casually positioned
across that pesky belly that won't disappear no matter how little you eat and how
much pilates you do,
Tilt the head, demurely smile.
You're beautiful. You've made it.
And you know it.
You've crossed the tracks.
Wave to those that haven't.
And float towards the golden double doors that close at eight.
The haves sink into plush velvet seats, gearing up for
A night of nerves for some, fun for others, but
More importantly PR for most.
Whiles the have nots maneuver their way
Through the maze of quadruple stretch limos en route to
the nearest one hour photo.