B

Her face melts at the end of a cigarette.
"How are you?" she mumbles, and I try to answer
sweetly, normally, I'm not staring,
like I didn't stare at the man
in the produce aisle without a nose
when I was seven.

Most days its not that terrific being me.
Just enough like everyone else I've no excuse
for either pride or bitterness.
If I am capable,
I would like to turn small and rare
and be remembered by one or several only.