There is a drag queen

whose star hangs between my joy and shame.

Baby Love is her name.

 

Ms. Love to you.

 

She’ll see you now,

though no audience sees her.

Look her in the face

and a regal red fingernail

gauges out your eyeballs.

 

She rises; a demure dragon,

sequin scales flashing disco hues.

Emerges from cave of tacky tiaras and tiramisu,

discarded during hissy fits.

 

She scares me, this diva supreme.

Too deviant, too defiant

for this man straight-laced into suit and tie.

 

Baby looks me in the mind’s eye,

pouts, then shouts

“Snap out of it, bitch!”

 

Sashays back to her den

where no men may follow.

 

The repressible Ms. Love,

Will I ever be ready for her close-up?