My face means nothing.
     My hands are not ideal
     And modest jewelry is buried in the bedroom for weeks.
     My eyes are good for vision
     But for a poem 
     They are too small, too light, too empty, and expressless.
     Please, choose a brighter pair.
     An Indian works perfect for a verse.
     Consider Orientals, they are modish, 
     And ranked up to a piquant choice.
     Not me. You know who I am.
     Ain't smart, nor safe.
     What else you see?
     The legs?
     That's new. I'm wearing pants, you liar!
     Ok, what's next?
     Feel shy to share?
     That's why you cannot write a poem 
     About humble, undetermined me. 


2005
TA