Changing Route

I want a plastic surgeon to work wonders with my
skin and dot little black lines that smell like a

dry erase board. Americans suffer from obesity, what
a surprise! Mr. McDonald's blood kin must be pretty

happy rolling in all those greasy singles. You think I want
liposuction? On the contrary. I want the surgeon, with his

blue plastic gloves and perfect smile, to look at my bare
skin and press gently with the tip of his instrument until my

eyes close. I want the television reaction too. "You can look
now," as he uses the closed end of his pen to point and

explain why my face looks like a map. Today my Uncle
Charlie died, and I can't help but notice how the already tiny

book of the family is burning. Some pages are missing, some
turned to ash. Others are blank. This makes me think about

God and the stuff of creation, and I wonder if my face is not
the real book, the traveler's guide in an unknown city, some-

where in Italy, Ukraine, and Ireland. The place with landmarks
where all three meet, sit down, and have a strong drink.