At half past five each Friday, 

Samuel keyed-in his security

alarm's four-digit code, 

closing his office for the weekend.  

He tightly clutched his 

chestnut leather briefcase, 

before hurrying to catch 

the first train home.

Conceding to the defeat of his 

heavy-framed tortoise-shell 

Armani glasses 

while they 

cut into the bridge of his nose;

Samuel unlocked his apartment door, 

greeted Madge, his cat, 

and then kicked off 

his alligator shoes.

It was no secret at work that he was gay, 

but their jaws would drop if they ever found out 

he spent his weekends dancing in skin-tight dresses, 

as a British woman named Samantha Fox. 

Samantha had existed just as long as

Samuel had known that he was queer.  

She came to life, one magical day when he 

looked in a mirror but instead of his reflection, 

she appeared.

He turned up the speakers, 

blasting Aretha and Babs, 

as he sat down to paint. 

Priming his face for cake, 

he glued down his eyebrows, 

then let Samantha take the reins.

She sipped on a gin on tonic, 

as she applied foundation 

then 

contoured her face.  

Within minutes, Samuel disappeared, 

and Samantha sat in his place.

False eyelashes and acrylic nails 

were the final touches to her look.  

Samantha zipped herself into 

a revealing royal blue dress, 

then let 

her six-inch stiletto heels 

carry her off into the night.