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I've heard that air hostesses

            get paid cosmetic leave

if their skin becomes contentious

    and the resulting pustuled pimples

            can't be magically made over

with a blob of black eyeliner

                        into a beauty spot.


The march, pink-lipped, high-heeled, dry-cleaned

            down the narrow aisles

and I can't help but think of a cloned army,

robotic, ice-maiden cold, and deadly

            advancing behind their drink-cart artillery

ready to clobber any caught

                        smoking in the shoebox toilets.


Their incessant battle cry echoes and amplifies:

"Chicken or beef?"

"Chicken or beef?"

"Chicken or beef?"



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