The paint on my face is peeling
Too long without a fresh coat to
Cover up the blemish of mistaken
—identity—
People will see through
The raw, exposed grain of flesh
Much too real for
Aluminum-sided strangers
Weathering storms in happy hamlets
Hailing golf balls bouncing off
Simulated walls, chuting through
Spidered spouts of infantile
Disregard.
(Previously published in CER*BER*US, # XLVI,2002)
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