My smile looks like a dented Studebaker’s grill br from a bygone era; or more like the weathered picket fence br that poet Robert Frost never found the time to mend… br My nose has a hole from the cancer within br that could or would take the Hope diamond to fill; and the lump br on my head, it’s my twin… br People stare at me and wonder br how I’m still alive, or they ask me how long br my nose and head have been with child. br The little children cringe and with dirty fingers point, br knowing little if anything of a dead man walking, as their br mothers pull them by the hair or arms br safely out of my contaminated destination. br Police don’t give me traffic tickets br they recommend to the judge, house arrest… br believing when you are deformed br you are an unsafe driver and putting others at risk.