The shadows knock the door and whisper doom
to burnished looks. Chromed Helen saddles on
a mask to ride and hide her face upon
the thundered walls of famed Duluth. Her room
holds epic pageants, trolls spandex magic,
for fleeting, fleeting days. Soon Troy departs
when age must scale and sack such oozing arts.
Still gloss reads lips. Clash of clothes stays tragic…..
It's scruffy kids that note, (sandcastles blown
like wind through holes) yes, waxed and buffed and blushed-
but pretty frays on us.-bold plaid should show.
Yet wrapped, ribbon- hidden-. Those pouts when rushed!
So fling and tear, yes, wear to rags, mangle
these days. No style may cling. Hangers dangle.

Glenn Bagshaw

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/standard-troy-time/