Lipstick and Anarchy

Sunday morning
Woke up on my bedroom floor with
a glamorous woman, a hangover, and a faded
A for anarchy scrawled in permanent marker across the back of my hand.
Torn-off drink bracelets
litter the carpet where we rolled around in passion
just hours before.

Now the sun glares in the window
Illuminating how somehow, your make-up is still perfect.
Your ringtone
Nancy Sinatra, These Boots Were Made for Walking
Making me laugh, think of someone else.
I watch the sheeple file
out of the church across the street
as you prance out in your sexy little dress
with your disheveled hair, your freedom, your lipstick smirk
and jump into the waiting car.

I'm reminded of the time
another beautiful woman left my house
on Sunday morning, wearing a miniskirt and fishnets and boots
with a long jacket that hid the entire skirt
a dignified morning-after march
back to where her car had been ditched for a night of drinking
sheeple men gaping their sheeple eyes
while sheeple women scowled in sheepy disapproval
and envy?

What do they think of us?
Do we seem sexy, trampy, fun, free?
With our supernova acid hazes and sensuous parties
Do we exist outside the bounds of their consciousness?
I rummage around for some deodorant
I need to catch the bus to work
Alas, freedom is in last night's hazy memory.