The face I’ve put on for almost twelve hours is in terrible need of repair. I take off my face and rinse it
in the sink scrub it cleanse it smear on some lotion and hang it in the cool air to dry. I look in the mirror –
blank gaze of a man staring like a black bird before winter who’s forgotten the migration routes.
Time urges everything into a mound of dirty underpants in the hamper. The only
thing worthy of preservation is the face. It should be charming again tomorrow when I use
it in the office, and I should be happy as one who can easily fit in and leave no trace of recognition. You don’t
*published on the 24th issue of the Mascara Literary Review, read the poem here