Man of a Thousand Faces

The man of a thousand faces

Sits down at the table

Eats a small lump of sugar

And smiles at the moon like he knows her

And begins his quiet ascension

Without anyone's steady instruction

To a place and no religion

Has found a path to our alikeness

His words are quiet like stains

Are on a tablecloth washed in a river

Stains that are trying to cover for each other

Or at least blend in with the pattern

Good is better than perfect

Scrub till your fingers are bleeding

And I'm crying for things that

I tell others to do without crying

He used to go to his favorite bookstores

And rip out his favorite pages

And stuff 'em into his breast pockets

The moon to him was a stranger

Now he sits down at a table right next to the window

And begins his quiet ascension

Without anyone's steady instruction

To a place and no religion

Has found a path to our alikeness

And he eats a small lump of sugar

And smiles at the moon like he knows her