Wager

Another face comes pleading to me for a place
among the rest – it knows how grumpy I can get
when something’s lines and tones, geometry
and attitude don’t pass whatever test I never know
I will subject it to: it wants so much to stay it turns

androgynous – as if to lean too heavily towards
any single gender might result in its peremptory
dismissal: perhaps an ambiguity might tickle
some acuity: trick me into shading it into some
possibility of permanence: it knows I crumple paper

up at tiny provocations: so many of its relatives
get thrown into the trash. It’s hard to serve a master
this importunately rash. Ah, but it has wagered
well tonight: it’s wriggled into an alluring guise.
It finds I am a goner for imponderable eyes.



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