“You sleep here, our guest“, he ushered proud
with gestures through a darkened door
that hid the horrors of the pinky cloud
and unicorns with flowing hair upon their head
and for our slumber; the truly mocking,
garish, pink fairy princess bed.

Stiff-armed corpse I, gazing up
to spy the glowing fairy sky
and around our gifted passion parlour
a Barbie car and house given by
brother, father.

Taunt me princess with your wings
and your daytime glowing things;
stack your Barney DVDs, his singing
doesn’t frighten me (I grit and set
my teeth just so and resist the urge
to shriek and go).

Rattled handles resist the wrench
of fulsome promised fun-time
wench; so slipping from
the fairy princess bed I turn the
handle for her instead.

But in place of smiling perfumed
partner I look down low and
see the owner of the pinken palace
boudoir, come to rescue Barbie’s
car and as I follow the fairy princess
gaze I see she looks at me amazed
and points a shaky pinkie finger
thus and says, as only fairy princess
must,

“I…”

“…can see your winkie…“