I see you in the window
of a Kenchic diner
you see me
and quickly look away.

You look away because
my jiggered and cracked
and torn and tattered face
is a reflection of your own face
when all that paint is gone.

My jiggered and cracked
and torn and tattered smell
is your own son’s smell
without his fake muddled
nouveau riche Galvin Klien.

My jiggered and cracked
and torn and tattered face
is the face of your own
grandiose society.

My jiggered and cracked
and torn and tattered clothes
are just like the skimpy clothes
that cover your own nakedness.

My jiggered and cracked
and torn and tattered hands
are the hands that
hold onto the wrought iron
of your own rusty future.

My jiggered and cracked
and torn and tattered body
is the body of your own past.

And now in your present
your Lady Gay fingers
your Johnson and Johnson face
scarce hides the fact that
you could very well be me.

I made you lose your appetite
i made you look,
see the colour inversion
in your own black and white soul.

And when the askari molests me
you look away again
because my jiggered and cracked
and torn and tattered cries
are the ghoulish crescendos
of your own muffled anguish.

© Claudette oduor