A dummy, a mannequin,
a wax work doll. An object
to be stared, commented, laughed at.
A robotic machine. Controlled
by a set of commands.
“Shift your face to the left
your neck is not straight, your face
not level with the ground,madam.”
The holy mantra for photo-production
needs me to wear a plastic smile on demand
of correct length and breadth measurements
The canvas of my life
is replaced by a cheap blue one
Dirty too. I persuade him
to make it grey.
And I wonder how many sittings
and how many, many rehearsals
would capture my flyaway spirit
and inject a whiff of my soul
into this two-inches-of-gloss
this millimetred smile?