Saviors and saints

I walk to the park
through the poses of the people
who refuse to move aside

I am not what they
are posing for
came for
wish for

They’ve prayed for a savior
and I’m not a saint
they’ve longed for a beauty
and I’ve forgotten to comb my hair

No beacon of classical virtue
or high-boned cheeks

I push
through their poses
and selfish longing
dead searching eyes
and pallid summations

I know what they’re looking for
is not what they’re thinking of

Searching eyes
covered in blankets
warmed by disillusion

Fail to see