The Orphan

My jar of essential biotic nutrients
has been stolen,
and I am lost in the woods
without moisture.

I stumble through
the overlapping brush,
and the fruit-bearing branches
strike at my face,
and cut
worry-lines into my
bronzed but
droopified
cheeks.

I fear that
no amount of
fat-soluable vitamin extracts
can ever make me
bangable
again.

Tears of shame fall
from my eyeballs like small
change
into an empty jar of
Dove
face cream.

'Spare some copper
for an orphan,'
says the orphan, as he rattles
his change jar
at me.

I look upon the orphan’s
filthy
but flawless face,
and I recognize the
empty jar as my
own.

‘Oh orphan,’
I say.
‘My eyeballs say moist,
but the back of
my hand
says,
strike
an
orphan!’