Feste's Lute

Ceremonial freak outs
as someone realized
the girl outside gives all,
but it’s a front.
It’s expected, except…
She’s me —
carved out to sell ads
and hate.
She’s me —
except, unexpected…
and mystic.

It ends
with the sound of
sweeping.
These are paths
that children
may not tread.
Straw on skin,
the handles callous
tender palms.
Bristling at
the thought of
his regard.