The Narcissus Boutique

The Narcissus Boutique
With her whole heart, Lilacey longed most of all
to outshine her friends at the Christmas Eve Ball.
 
Snowy morning, she walked to Narcissus Boutique
for prettification, though the prospect was bleak.
The store’s owner was lovely, Blue Eyes and Blonde Hair
and of his own beauty, extremely aware.
 
“Can I help you?” he asked. “Make me pretty, sir, please”
“You’re at the right place, I’ve the best expertise,
and my dear you’ll look wonderful, I guarantee.
Though you’ll never be quite as attractive as me.”
 
“I know,” snapped Lilacey, “You’ve misunderstood,
at the Christmas Eve Ball I just want to look good.”
 
“Perfect,” said the man; he looked round the small store.
a few empty boxes littered the floor.
“To the closet, as you’re an emergency case.
It’s reserved for the hopeless and well look at your face.”
 
While Lilacey expected a torturous doom
behind red velvet curtain was a cavernous room
like a bookless library three stories high
and stuffing the shelves, all the shoes you could buy.
 
“Come on now, shoes? How much help will they be?
To fetish-less folks I’m still ugly old me.”
 
“Sure, now you’re ugly; frizzy hair, and fat toes,
but try a pair, then turn up your bumped nose.
These shoes, while abundant, are more than they seem
Try on just one, dear, you’ll see what I mean.”
 
Lilacey, she chose strappy sandals in gold
and transfigured completely just as the man told. 
A swish: silky hair, long-lashed eyes, heart-shaped face
a bright white Greecian gown, imperfections erased.
 
“I’m pretty, I’m pretty!” she jumped and she yelped.
I’m not totally hopeless, no, I can be helped!”
She tore the next box of the shelf with delight:
thigh high leather boots, jet black, and skin tight.
She ripped off the gold sandals, stepped in the boots
swish! a bodacious body and two big grapefruits.
 
She tried colorblock oxfords in gold white and black
swosh! a pretty magician, blonde, black suit on her back.
She tried on red Converse, grew thin as a twig;
leather thongs swoosh! goddess dressed by leaves of a fig.
 
White pumps, flowey dress, tight pin-up girl hair
her skirt flows and ripples above a grate of hot air.
Nude pump and she’s classy; sneakers and she’s built;
snow boots, Arctic babe; kitten heels, delicate silk.
 
Each day and each night she tried on her new shoes
week by week, pair by pair, with so many to choose.
Each outfit looked better—more and more great;
and she tried on no less than twelve hundred and eight.
 
Until eighty years later she dropped over dead,
long forgotten by friends so no tears were shed.
Lilacey became so enthralled with herself
when she glimpsed in the mirror she could do nothing else.