She Gets Ready

She rises,

She stretches her arms,

Greeting the day through the window.

She rolls off the bed,

Her hair a moppish mess upon her head.

She brushes it clear of knots,

Then, disrobing, hops

Into the steamy water.

She dries her figure and her hair,

She picks an outfit for the day,

A stylish ensemble, to be sure.

A few wet hairs still go astray,

But her visage is beauty pure.

Her look cannot be complete,

Until she puts on her face,

Of course.

First, a foundation of foundation,

Then a blush,

Two eyelids marked,

Those black lines arced.

Ten minutes pass (okay, fifteen)

She leaves the bedroom to be seen.

And she’s right, she really is beautiful,

After all that.

But I would have said the same thing,

When first she rose.

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