here in the desert
squirrels don’t swing from trees
they dig holes
and hide under rocks
just like I tried to do
as a young shy
self-critical
mirror-hating kid
when I was old enough
to grow a spotty beard
I discovered that mask
a convenient place to hide
a curly-haired corn field
excellent at cloaking the
movements of feeling
shamelessly wrinkled now
too big to crawl under boulders
and too tired and uncaring to try
I shave and run out
of the house each morning
engaging with everyone
I find most carry
a change purse of love
that holds a few coins
and what fun it is to stop
and swap ten cents
for two of their nickels
then walk away
always richer