Near Enough
He’s almost beautiful, his shoulders big
Enough, but not remarkable, his nose
A handsome size, his hair thick as a wig
Some balding man might buy, and in repose
His face is solemn, not some pretty thing.
The upper eyelids are as dark in tone
As if they were like storm clouds in the spring
(Since he is young). A swelling baritone
Outcropping on his throat beneath a beard
Of three days’ growth says he’s a normal range
Of guy, no Romeo or god, no weird
Rock star, a Freddie/Michael, strutting, strange.
You’d never notice him, except he sits
Across from you and scratches pus from zits.