SOME DISGUISE

Some days I'm a seismograph.  Neutral,
some would say gullible, picking up tremors across
neatly-edged yards, the neighbors putting up a good
front, earthquakes from friend across town.

Rarely, I malfunction:   call out reports I wasn't
asked for; respond to a sneeze, a passing flirtation
intended for someone else.  These things happen
I try to keep my face calm.

My daughter's ashamed.   Who wants a seismograph mother?
For years she's been pushing for change, for me to
paint my nails red, or pink, or purple.   Try her new
brand of lipstick.    She says her grandmother says

my ears stick out because I wear my hair back behind them.
Why argue?  Things could have been worse.   A tape
recorder, catalytic converter playing back energy most
folks would just as soon lose.   Loved ones, friends,

I say, don't worry.   These internal workings respond
only to essence, low rumblings, not your literal faults.
Come, a genuine smile will disarm me.   A laugh, loose
as lava, at last the real thing, make all of us human again.

By Ingrid Wendt