Poem by Annamaria R. Quaresima

I am bereft of my foamy cap; Decore did not deliver
on that soft serve ice cream hair: dense ivory lather,
shampoo twirled smooth into a kewpie tuft, with a side
of radiant morning singing. I never expected a chorus
shoulder-shimmying, bursting out from behind my sink
in catchy doo-wop song, or to adore a brand I didn’t
use, but I was firm in my bubble-encased (self-image),
forgetting their fragile state, and did not expect such a
paltry display of froth; a woeful Schrödinger’s cappuccino.
And now! My bubble is burst; to think that, in all this time
since a late 80s advertisement, a brief false assurance, I’ve
been sudsing away, for decades, assuming, and I never
thought to seek the mirror’s honest confirming glimmer.
This—is a reminder: check reality with thine own eyes.