A Thimble of Sorts

The jeers die behind me.
I can't help hoping,
however crudely they expressed it,
they were recognising, blue-ribboning
a well-turned ankle
in a well-chosen stocking.
It's so nice to fool.
Even briefly.
It makes the hours
of turning hoof clops into pixie clicks
when walking twelve stone in heels
worth every step.
It's a cruel trick,
giving a girl the style
and desire to be Marlene,
instilling in her the touch
that lipstick was meant to be
ward to: a hand that does not quiver
at the challenge of a cupid's bow.
Cruel trick
to throw in a clause with such blessings,
like the one bad fairy at the christening,
dumping broad shoulders,
goalkeeper hands
and stubble like black thorns
bursting through powder,
reminding you it's all such a joke.