His life story in my imagination. . . .

Wrinkles run through his face,

riverbeds often flooded with tears.

This line from when his son died,

this one from years of labor,

Here; it appeared on a rainy day

at 15 left on the street.

When his wife left for good,

little creases filled in the gaps between lines,

cobwebs in the space she occupied.

 

In a face like this,

beauty is not discovered.

It is weathered, rusted, and distressed,

until it’s unintelligible.

 

Then he smiles.

And you see those furrows

were worn away by smiles as well as frowns,

That the bitterness of his face has not tainted the sweet of his eyes.