It was the bed she slept on and the dress
she wore about the house. It was the veil
she hid behind. In snow and rain and hail
it kept her dry. And if she felt distress
which she did, often, it would dry each tear.
Keeping it clean and brushed was her whole life.
In nightmares she would hack it with a knife,
then watch in mirrors as she’d disappear
because, without it, she would not be there.
Her face was plain, she thought, her talk was trite.
She’d no idea what people do at night
save sleep. Her only lover was her hair.
She’d spend whole days, brush, lather and then rinse.
It kept her far too busy for some Prince.