This is the time of the year in New York when you see them returning.
The tall, thin, black silhouettes navigating the slush in their cheap Rock boots.
They announce the coming of Fashion Week like quails announce the end of summer.
I was inspired to write them a poem :
« Don’t look at me unless you’re Vinoodh and Inez
My boyfriend he will get you
Dump you in a trash bin somewhere
Daddy will drown you in a pond behind the factory »
I saw you walking fast
Holding tight the frozen plastic of the lookbooks
And now in the middle of the night
I hear you giggling in the hotel rooms
I often see this guy at the airport.
He chaperones the girls trans-Atlantic.
I think he figures out the passports, waits for the bags,
Makes sure some jerk doesn’t snap some photos of them in their sleep.
The girls look bored while they wait.
No friends but a cellphone.