The Face Painter

So you wake up in the morning

and it’s still raining

and your life is this puddle of gray

concrete and your feet are mired

in it all day long

until you see

waltzing down the street

to his own inner music

this skinny guy with a lopsided

topknot of dreadlocks

and bell-bottoms lettered in yellow paint

Peace Harmony Love Yourself

and he opens his satchel

and takes out a dozen cakes of paint

and a little pointy brush and begins

transforming his own face—

neon pink lines swooping outward

from the corners of his eyes,

a half-moon of silver dots on each cheek,

and somehow

the concrete around your feet

begins melting into a small rainbow—

a modest little rainbow tucked away

in one obscure corner of the cosmos—

but you can dance in its radiance

and suddenly

you want to take off your concrete

mask and paint the insides

of your eyelids with sunlight—

cerulean, lavender, emerald, rose.