Faces at A Flea Market

Everywhere I go … faces—
The streets, the stores, even the woods.
I sometimes see faces glowing in the darkest dark.
Big faces, small faces—
Beautiful faces, ugly faces—
Faces that look like fried rubber tires,
and faces as perfect as cut glass—
Faces broken as dreams.
Lots of five-dollar faces,
many lost among the found and surgically repaired—
Others — just scared and fallen,
hidden out of sight.
Last Sunday at a Flea Market was the first
time I ever saw a file of used faces,
as if a face were just a throw-a-way mask.
I had to laugh, but I bought one anyway.

Timothy Resau
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