by Michael H. Brownstein
All day I look at myself in storefront windows.
None of the news is good.
Everyone follows the grain of commonplace.
I am surrounded by women in dark eyeliner,
Air skunk strong, blonde hair too sunny.
One day a simple tattoo will fold into stretch marks.
One day it will have the texture of grits.
Everyone has a scar, a blemish,
A skin-deep lie. It is almost impossible to tell
Tiger from tiger. But for our smell,
Each of us is exactly alike.
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