Through the Looking Glass...

Shhh, says the mother, dressed in rags and tags
to the daughter who wants to look
through the looking glass-

Shhh. She understands not the silent plea
kudos to the life of the rich
the confusion to which
we run around the mills of the bourgeoisie-
hand in hand , their hands in our pockets.

Shhh. Stop trying to look through the looking glass
out of the life of the working class
into halls rich and varied,
coloured drinks and dresses like faux minx
cats drape around the shoulders of the fortunate
boys who do not cook and girls who do not work
fathers who stay at home, mothers who have companies.

Out of the glass into your life,
The proletariat doth dream
of scones and clotted cream,
Privilege to be free
and have trinkets and wink at
anyone they wish.
Voices made loud and clear,
encouraged to be brash from young and risks taken.

Shh, the mother says to the daughter,
pulling her away from the looking glass and into the dank reality of life-
Shutting quietly the door with her proletarian might,
Saying go my child, go gently into the night.