Pinch

It's only a
Three inch deformity…
Plenty for the
Boys down the street,
Treat for their stares
Bare hands thrust over
Eyes in
Mock fright.
Only a
Three inch pinch of
Lacking skin
Where lip should be, but
Teeth born forth
In stead.
Treading past as
Mothers mutter
To the rear of
Twisted palms
“What a pity”
Not perceiving
Their stares
Stumbles on
Persisting in the
Tunnel vision present.
Alone in his mind
He passes them by,
Ignoring their glare
On his back.
Feeling safe in this,
Mental haven.
Safe in a house
With no windows.