Someone threw a face out in the trash –
bits of wrapping, dark blue ribbon stuck to it.
Unwanted gift. It could have used a lift.
Skin as wizened as a prune. Discolored
creases, bulges, lines suggested dire designs –
symmetrically ugly. Its wide-spaced eyes
had fallen toward the sides as if attempting
to escape: but had been stopped by lumps
and ridges: smidges of a broken landscape:
inadvertent bulwark which retained the rotting
flesh. Odd, then, that its agony looked fresh.
I picked it up and took it home and tacked it
on the wall above an antique gramophone,
which doesn’t play. “There’s absolutely
nothing you can do,” it seemed to say. It hangs
there shriveling and irredeemable, today.
.
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