It must be a trick of the light

the latex semi-gloss overcast

filling lines and concealing

zits and bits of wear and tear

the road-hard and put-away wet drear

of too many nights left in the rain

that I see in you (the real you)

the baby’s face you once wore

before the layers of paint

and sundry ragged nails

of all those pictures you

hung over bare blond walls

built to save you from the rage

of sun and savage wind—

all those forces yet unseen

bent like hell

on blowing

you down.