This morning, I put a brown paper <br />shopping bag over my head. <br />I determined where to poke out holes <br />for my eyes, then removed the bag and did so. <br /> <br /> <br />Then, I put the paper sack back over my head <br />and marched eight blocks down Elmwood Avenue <br />to the Municipal Housing Office. <br /> <br /> <br />As I entered the office, I removed the bag. <br />Some of my face came off with it. <br />'I'm here to apply for Section 8, ' I said meekly. <br />The four hundred pound creature behind <br />the desk grunted at me. <br /> <br /> <br />'We only take people with intact faces, ' <br />she snarled, the contempt in her voice palpable. <br />'Come back when you look like a real <br />human being.' she added mockingly. <br /> <br /> <br />'Your face is a pail of lard.' I told her, spitting <br />on her desk before I shuffled out the door. <br />Once home, I tried duct tape, liquid cement, superglue. <br /> <br /> <br />Anything which would restore my face <br />to a semblance of social respectability. <br />Nothing worked. Nothing could. <br /> <br /> <br />My face will only become whole <br />when I lose all shame.<br /><br />David Kowalczyk<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sad-sorry-sounds-made-by-dying-creatures/