His path to grace won't be his face, I fear; No noble brow nor Roman prow lives there. And while his ears would sooner suit a jug, At least they match, and balance out his mug. What hair's his own, while fair, so lank and thin It fails to hide the shine, or mask his chin; A pity since his jaw needs much more thrust To help his smile, spread 'cross his dial, win trust. His specs so dense I can't make sense, you see, Where he is aimed--I must suppose it's me. I'm puzzled why he'd catch my eye; you'd think I'd spurn away his offer of a drink... Yet, what you see is never what you get: Turned out to be the finest man I've met! I took a chance and put aside my pride; Looked past his face--and saw the grace inside.     I smile when I get feedback. Click the button above and make me happy.   Back to My Poetry Page The Authors Haunt Author Directory The Authors Haunt Library The Authors Haunt Home

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