I have a problem.
You know how you get a certain song
in your head
and can’t get it out?

Well, that's not it.

Lately, I can't look at a man's face
without picturing it twisted
at the moment of orgasm.

Like when my dentist leans over me,
his rehearsed smile taunting me with
health and regularity,
I picture him hunched over his wife, teeth
clenched in canine determination.

Or when I listen to my professor
pontificate on Shakespeare,
his crisp enunciation of the
world’s greatest words
solidifying his authority,
I envision his pursed mouth
rounded in a trembling O.

And when I listen to the pastor
patiently explaining the errors
of our ways,
I imagine sweat
rolling down his forehead
as he grunts another soul into existence.

It’s like one of those little toys you used to get
in Cracker Jack boxes;
on one side is
a normal face
on the other is a monster.

Except these faces
are changing on their own
and nothing I can do
will change them back.