Fake Tattoos Poem by Tom Hamilton

Me and Maggie must have spent
twenty minutes pushing
hard down on those fake tattoos she said
they'd look good with our braless suits besides
every second bent pressing
lent just another hint of deeper color and
she wanted to see what her mother might do
if she assumed they were real. She

thought we could have more fun in the attic, we
could comb down the shutters and forget it was Summer
Rub the wax from the candles all over each other.
Until the sheen brightened the bogus depictions
And the antique portraits watched in panic
fretted as if the pictures were permanent
instead of just a smooth removable plush
As harmless as eye shadow
or blush. Then

we'd show our Nair knees off at the pool and
Maggie would slap at the back their heads but
the boys just want to throw the stupid foot
ball.