The page is blank,
like a relationship
when a first response occurs
on match.com.
Who is that person?
Are they the page or the ink?
The pen or the storyteller?
I know only the picture,
only the general size of their nose
and whether their ears stick out.
Is that a double chin?
And their bio.
A micromemoir of their
desires and lack of flaws.
A self authorized fiction
created by self anointed
artistic license.
How beautiful that would
be in real life,
controlling how others view you
like a master puppeteer.
"This is how I look
at this particular angle
and in this particular light."
God help us if we
met in a dark alley,
or maybe worse
in a well lit milieu
of ordinary folk.
So maybe the page isn't blank,
but filled with a carnivore
in waiting
only later to reveal
how well they concealed
themselves,
on limb or under bush.
Or maybe they
allowed the illusionist's
reveal –
waiting under their smile
to later pounce.
Or maybe . . .
their presence
was truly majestic enough
to show their flaws.
And still
draw those
to pursue.
The blank page
and the mystery therein
may be
the greatest
sentient draw.
This article appears in Apr 15-21, 2009.