past the nose and
lips? Jump down
to my ******* and
hips? Marvel at

my long legs? Am I
a projection, like an image
on a movie screen lying
flat in ripped blue jeans? I'm a

matchbox cover, a work of
art with a striking surface,
a pin-up doll that can light
a furnace. But so small  

I get lost when you
toss me in your drawer
with notebooks, gadgets
and receipts from the store.