Betty Glaz
St. Clare of Assisi and St. John Henry Newman Writing Groups
My face is grotesque,
and people are afraid of me.
They cross the street
or search for cracks in the sidewalk.
See that family over there?
They, too, refuse to look at me.
I was once like them,
had a wife and two kids
but they’re all gone now,
left me years ago—
before my face became ugly.
One night, wrapped in a tattered blanket,
asleep under a bridge,
three guys jumped me, beat me,
stabbed something, a screwdriver, I don’t know what—
into my eye,
They took the blanket
and nearly seized my eye.
It never healed right,
protrudes from the socket, red and runny.
Here comes a three-piece suit.
“Hey, buddy, got any extra change?
I haven’t eaten since yesterday?”
Yeah, go on by. Don’t look at me.
I didn’t expect my life to be like this.
Are you afraid of what you might become someday?
Well I was once like you.
I was a Boy Scout, an altar boy.
I’m a father, son, and a brother.
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.