Don't Hate Old Women

Faces allude me like

the point I wanted to make while you

were talking,  but I forgot what it was.

It was just there on the horizon

at the edge of my mind.

But I couldn’t grab it fast enough

when I saw it go over the side

into the void

of genius thoughts that never

come to fruition.

Such a loss for humanity.

Faces will be young or old,

brown or beige or pink.

Unless there are moles or scars

or big jug ears,

the faces remain nameless.

Pretty faces are the worst.

Generic in their fortunate beauty,

pop stars in blonde

and various shades of brown

and actors

on films who are interchangeable,

unmemorable.

But you think me a racist

because your handsome, brown man

eluded me.

His face as beautiful as the son.

But you would have eluded me as well.

You, with your posse of comeliness,

had I not laid eyes on you

so many times before,

training my brain in recognition.

All of you ...  tanned and thin with long

golden-brown hair , chiseled features.

You look the same to me.

So I must be a misogynist too.

Faces blur together.

The names are worse when I call

them out loud.

And they are wrong. 

Soooo wrong.

To see a face many times,

yet still fail  in the naming …

not to be forgiven I suppose.

It must indicate narcissism,

lack of care. It must be

ignorance,

or rude disregard.

I will answer to anything. 

I will answer to anyone.

Even the waiters ignore me

as we share this restaurant.

Excuse me,

Who did you say you were?

Did you say?

For I do not know

myself.