Everywhere I go … faces—
The streets, the stores, even the woods.
I sometimes see faces glowing in the darkest dark.
Big faces, small faces—
Beautiful faces, ugly faces—
Faces that look like fried rubber tires,
and faces as perfect as cut glass—
Faces broken as dreams.
Lots of five-dollar faces,
many lost among the found and surgically repaired—
Others — just scared and fallen,
hidden out of sight.
Last Sunday at a Flea Market was the first
time I ever saw a file of used faces,
as if a face were just a throw-a-way mask.
I had to laugh, but I bought one anyway.
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Timothy Resau is an American writer of fiction and poetry, originally from Baltimore, Maryland. He's currently resides in coastal North Carolina, and he’s just completed a novel, Three Gates East. His writings have appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic, Eskimo Pie, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Down in the Dirt.
Latest posts by Timothy Resau (see all)
- Faces at A Flea Market - 27th January 2021
Thank you.