When you shamble, misshapen, through the village square,
the gentry angle away, their shoulders ashiver, their
eyes glissading there, there: anywhere
besides you.
Even the poor De Laceys leave you
no welcome mat. They are kind to everyone
but you.
The others belong here, you
can tell by the way they cha-ching
and share their wealth
of camaraderie, procuring
almost everything, but not
you. You, they hate
to see.
They imagine Medusa
behind you. A basilisk, too.
Why risk a moment
of curiosity?
Better to bypass and pretend
not to see the beseeching
puppy-dog plea in the gaze of
poor invisible
you.
Digital art by Lew Holzman
Smoky Quartz 