Fake Tattoos| Tom Hamilton Me and Maggie must have spent twenty minutes pushing hard down on those fake tattoos she said they'd look good with our braless suits besides every second bent pressing lent just another hint of deeper color and she wanted to see what her mother might do if she assumed they were real. She thought we could have more fun in the attic, we could comb down the shutters and forget it was Summer Rub the wax from the candles all over each other. Until the sheen brightened the bogus depictions And the antique portraits watched in panic fretted as if the pictures were permanent instead of just a smooth removable plush As harmless as eye shadow or blush. Then we'd show our Nair knees off at the pool and Maggie would slap at the back of their heads but the boys just want to throw the stupid foot ball.