Consider my unseen face
set against Hollywood Boulevard.
In a day belonging to the beautiful,
three window-shopping women saunter by.
Set against Hollywood Boulevard,
I slouch in my wheelchair.
Three women in elevated pumps saunter by
my beggar’s cup squeezed between my legs.
I slouch forward, mouth muzzled
alongside the windowpanes of the Walk of Fame.
My cup begs for a squeeze of presidential compassion.
I rolled over the stars, now roofed in shadow
alongside the reflections of the Walk of Fame
where the women glance
upon my Parkinson’s body. I’m roofed in black
as their shadows sway over concrete blocks.
The women glance upon a body of recoil.
On a street heavy with rich red lipstick,
shadows sway through the mobility of hips.
Will they remember a degenerative life?
Ma’s rich red lipstick kissed my forehead
in a day belonging to memory
dissolving within my degenerative mind.
Ghost neurons never consider an unseen face.