Family

a poem by Roger B Rueda

As if she, full of the joys of spring,
was a wool blanket,
or perhaps,
a patadyong, a wrap around
with a floral ethnic design:
no one can see you,
and it seems
they forget
what you have been keeping
under wraps, the batik designs
capturing the minds
of those who seem to have
turned a blind eye, or
those who don’t
know shit from Shinola.
Then much more when
it comes cuddling up to her,
a sitting duck,
and you looking happy
as a sandboy,
beside them.
You three were as if
one happy family,
your smiles
perfect and completely
impenetrable, your
photographer having
a dab hand at it.
Your photographs in magazines,
people see the best,
forget the rest.
No family, your name
would be mud,
you think, but
your being the real you
is nine times out of ten,
people reexamining the world
through a new lens.
Won’t you be dead on your feet?