Ruse
By Gene Aronowitz
I take a seat
on the museum lawn
beside life-size sculptures
of imperfect people, Their pimples
protrude, tresses burst from
noses and ears.
A family strolls
to where I pose
stoically, thin
hair in disarray, shoelaces untied, legs and arms crossed.
A young girl’s mouth
puckers,
expands to “wow.”
“Look at his eyes,” her mother whispers. “Oh my
God,” the young girl mouths,
turns away, misses my
grin. Me but not me,
I fit right in,
like I always do.
