Miss Audrey Hepburn

Miss Audrey Hepburn is staring down
from my bedroom wall;
her gaze cool and austere through
designer sunglasses.
I know her dress is Givenchy,
I know she’s eating Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
I know she can’t really see me,
but I pretend like we’re best friends,
anyway.
I am laying back on my bed,
my feet against the wall,
instead of my head.
My toes almost touch the cheap plastic frame
that Miss Audrey Hepburn
is staring down from.
Even though we’re best friends,
I feel self-conscious in Miss Hepburn’s presence.
Even though
I’ve told her all my secrets,
I know none of hers.
She knows all about my crushes,
but the only
men
in her life
that I know of
are the esteemed Misters Oscar and Tony,
whom she won over
in nineteen-fifty-three.
Miss Audrey Hepburn is wearing a tiara,
the real, glittering kind,
and it sits there
in her glossy chestnut hair,
winking along with the
Tiffany’s chandeliers.
Miss Hepburn radiates elegance and charm;
she seems nearly royal.
Yet, there is a sadness
in My Fair Lady’s not-so-Funny-Face.
Could she be,
while acting out this scene,
reliving the World War Two she witnessed as a teen?
Contemplating the sacrifices she has made to achieve
all that she has achieved:
The American Dream.
Miss Audrey Hepburn is holding a latte,
oblivious to the
crowd of angry New Yorkers
that I can see forming in the background.
I don’t think that they notice her,
in her own magical
Hollywood world;
her mind gone wandering
far away
on it’s own Roman Holiday,
while I am staying
on my bed,
looking up at Miss Audrey Hepburn
while
Miss Audrey Hepburn
is staring down
at me.