Gazing into this bubbly swill,
I search for a nugget – some motif or trill.
Never can guess what’ll float to the top.
Here it comes…this time, a gassy pop!
No, I don’t understand what it is.
It could be a budding seraph failing a quiz.
Else it’s a Pegasian mare on a trot.
Or it could be my face. Some face I got!
Mom said, “It’s mine!” But Pop said, “No,
they’re Grandmother’s eyes. I recognize the glow!”
Who truly can tell to whom it may trace?
It’s furrowed and wizened, but it’s my face!
Someone approached me when I was down –
some angel or muse. I lay my face in her gown.
Paid me a pittance. No, it wasn’t a lot.
But she suckled my face – this face I got.
The poem’s a record of what is made –
a sort of inventory. It’s my trade!
I hope someday somewhere it’s read.
I may be alive or I may be dead.
What’s Creation? A face, or a name?
Existence’s seven nanoseconds of fame?
All it’s earned me for sure is a mouthful of rot…
and receipts for a face like the one I got!