My dour husband, last appropriator
of my heart and senses, last in a long
line of resting dick faces—his ashen
disposition discolors old blue eyes,
leaving a smear that stains what once I felt.
What transpires behind that flat firm visage
is hidden; as he tells it some happy
heart yet lurks, rarely appearing on flesh,
the lips begrudge any effort to move
them, to speak, to smile, to look a lively
part and play act (at least) as real a person,
not just the shape of one. And yet—and yet!
I found movement in that face once, I swear,
I saw a flinch, and more, the eyes crinkling
into crows feet, so so slightly upturned.
I still see the lines in moving stillness
but can no longer find meaning in them.