burn my nostrils as they move
through the aisles of Giant,
large, droopy, old
women with pastel hair and girdles
and younger ones even more afraid of their age:

some of them expel gas,
pretty as a prom queen and as quietly
when the pass the cans of soup and tuna fish,

others wear cake batter on their crumpled faces
and paint circles with cows blood and icing
to signify eyes and lips;

like coloring an apple pink
because red is boring and trite,
or spraying bug repellent to cover up the collard greens
that have been cooking in your kitchen for weeks.