Shame is stuck in the fifties,
in a creamy pale ride, like cake batter butter
with a green/gray stripe across each side,
trimmed in polished strips of chrome,
front to fin. Green, the color of ‘around the gills,’
the color of envy, whispering,
‘I want that feeling I haven’t got.’
A color scolding like the first person who said,
‘Stop whining and fix your face.
Set your smile like it was before.
Set your bones, and smooth your hair.’…