Poem: Lines

The fine maps of faces.
Lines Lines in palms and poems don’t mean shit, man It’s the ones in faces that tell the future Work it out Put away the night-cream Let me know you and you, yourself The poetry’s in your eyes Mostly at the corners, where your history paints roadmaps Let me read your mouth The writing’s there at the edges All I want to know	This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection THE SMELL OF TWEED AND TOBACCO available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats.