With hair blond from Loreal’s touch

The newscaster’s pity

For the Afghani People

Was just a little bit

Unbelievable.

With her coiffed tresses

And silk and wool Gucci attire

The news representative

Looked more like a mannequin

Cold and unfeeling.

In her silk and wool Gucci Attire

The newscaster reported

Of Afghani souls on fire.

She spoke of hell, hardship and hate;

All common companions

For these people who live

Under a daily death sentence

As dust and disease are all that life gives

She slowly blinked one mascaraed eyelash

As she said,

“In Afghanistan, old age

comes around forty six.”

Dust and disease offer a sardonic mix.

For death is freedom

From such a miserable existence.

And yet, life unlived

Is like a promise unfulfilled.

Of these thoughts, the newscaster’s perfect red lips

Could not seem to release or spill.

She said, “Since America has intervened

Progress for women

Has been seen.”

She said there is hope because

No longer beneath their blue burkas

Are her sisters enslaved.

I can’t help but wonder:

Does she know they are her sisters?

Does she know the enslavement of the soul

Isn’t necessarily seen

In the clothing we wear

Or the style of our hair?

Apparently not.

If she had this knowledge,

In the mirror she would have looked with bravery

And seen her own Saks-fifth-avenue slavery.