The pariah dons
A porcelain smile,
Cracked at the corners,
Where his clay lips
Fall as gentle
As the morn, piece
By piece. He walks
In costumes cut
From the same cloth
That holds you
Close. While it welcomes
And warms you,
The thread rubs his shoulders
Raw. The pariah
Stares out of two sinkholes
Dug deep by relentless rain.
Even now
They tremble at the brim
And a cold mist blinds him.
Yet still
The pariah reads his lines
And rehearses the part.
Back heavy,
Mask drawn,
He greets you
As one of your own.
But no callbacks
This day or the next.
You don’t believe
His act,
And neither does he.
He Who Wanders 