Please Don’t Stare.
It’s not as bad as the horns
on Hellboy’s head
even when filed down to stubs
or the protrusions
on Elephant Man’s face
or that raspberry stain the shape of Africa
on the barista’s cheek that day in the mountains
but the volcanic cone,
a miniature Vesuvius,
on my forehead
is an eye popper
and looks like it’s about
to go off.
Crack
Not the crack in the cosmic egg
Nor the crack addicts smoke
Not even the crack in crack, snapple, pop breakfast cereal
but the bum crack
of Mr. Hairy
at the Eye Clinic
when he bent over to pick up
a form he had dropped
his shirt rolled up,
his jeans slipped a notch or two.
Everyone copped an eyeful.
I cracked a smile.
Some tittered.
Mr. Hairy was oblivious.
*pic courtesy of pexels.com
Jackson Browne, I say.
Who?
Jackson Browne, the singer. You look like him, like he was in the seventies when he was big.
I do?
Yes.
But I can’t sing and I work in a burger bar.
I know, but you’re finishing a degree in International Studies, right? You’ll be a diplomat. And you have his idealism, his energy. One thing though.
What’s that?
Don’t fade. Don’t go sanctimonious on us
I won’t, he says.
And looking at him, his floppy brown hair, chiselled features, slender build, alert eyes, I believe him.
He won’t.
On a road trip the other day
we got talking about birth defects you don’t see
any more
like hunchbacks, birth marks, cleft palates
though Simon
whose father was Lord Mayor of Mars had one
and spoke with a lisp.
Then at this café in the mountains
we were served
by a barista
with a raspberry stain on his left cheek
the shape of Africa.
Is that a birth mark, I asked him. We were just talking about them.
Yes, it is, he smiled.
It was just another feature on his face, like his nose.
or a mole
It was nothing special.
Yet it had a strange sort of beauty.
He poured me the greatest cup of coffee.
I was glad that I had asked him, that I didn’t wuss out.
It’s okay to be curious.
John Malone 