Marilyn

By Parker Schweickert

Red lips to match her earring, blonde hair to match her kin, blue eyes to match the background, the world is hers to win.

Los Angeles, the early years, confinement is her fate. And signing ‘way her destiny, she steps onto the grate.

While over air she stills her skirt so nobody will peep. But cameras snap, and people clap, their photos they may keep.

With each new Joe DiMaggio 16 cries from within, tossed back to 1942, desired for her skin.

And after many mini Millers, it’s no surprise of late, she slugs a glass of water to ingest barbiturate.

Shoes tap on ground, Los Angeles, into her house, she’ll creep. And when she steps in through her door she’ll sleep, and sleep, and sleep.