So what if it’s slightly brighter than
the rest of me. So what if it’s held on
with super-grip adhesive, neon
to my canary yellow body. It works.
I’m heroic again. I’m back.
I belong. I go out to dance
and drink, to find the next
Ms. Pac-Man.

She hasn’t seen it yet, my ex-wife,
but I sent her a picture, attached to a six-page
note of explanation. Nothing desperate,
of course, just chit-chat about the nose,
her new husband, God’s fierce judgment.
She called when she got it, asked
if I was okay and what it was
that I was looking for.
I told her fun, a good time maybe. Life.
When we hung up, she sounded tired, like
maybe her new life is getting to her.

What I didn’t tell her is that, at night,
when I peel this thing off of my face,
feel its absence and the naked slope
from my eyes to my lips, I remember
being happy, once, with the way it was.

What I didn’t tell her is that, each night,
I pray for someone
who won’t laugh when I place it on the nightstand,
roll over,
and kiss her goodnight.