UPON FACIAL ISSUES
by Teresita Perez
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
what a horror to behold
almost on the verge of tears
what it means to grow a beard.
When hopes in the tweezers fail,
I think of a razor blade.
And for further consolation
I daydream of depilation.
Then a mystic voice I hear
as if someone in my ear
whispered tones out of a grave.
“Cut them close, but don’t you shave!”
In my horrors and despair,
swimming in a sea of hairs,
I discover a black hose
on the tip of my own nose.
I look close. My chin I raise,
and thus see the grand disgrace,
when upon my face, alas,
grow the blades of tall, dark grass.
Inspired by decoration,
I desire no alteration,
and suddenly grow attached
to my porcupine mustache.
But again the truth appears
replenishing me with fears
till I wish I got from fate
and electrolysis date.
Copyright © 1973, 2020 to Teresita Perez
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