American Aisling

She stands with hands perfumed and moisturized,
A sun hat caps her plucked and arching brows
Above black glasses dark to dim the world.
Her nose is not her own, but it looks nice;
Her lips are vague and mirror Mona Lisa’s
Hint of a smile or longing for something.
Her arms are folded snug against her breasts;
She wears a pink crop top and white short shorts,
Her navel stares out taking in the view,
Her long legs towers built upon the sand.
She’s seen me but she doesn’t bend or falter;
She’s just a pretty statue on an altar.