Spoon-Face

Eating soup, today, a thick kind

that coats the metal, warm and blind.

Then the spoon turns, and there you are,

all squashed up, a strange, new star.

One eye, a big one, like a fish,

the nose, a smear, a wish

that it wasn't mine. Just a quick

look, and the whole face shifts.

My face. But not. This stranger,

a clown in miniature, in danger

of melting. A stretched-out chin,

a tiny, silver, warped sin.

And I feel that way, sometimes,

bent out of shape, in these weird times.

A ripple on the surface, then gone.

Just me, staring back, all wrong.