That kind of smile twists something in the lung,
makes one gawk a bit to see what's wrong with him,
as though you could, as though it would be printed
on his face in large and lab-white words.

Of course it's not as scripted as you think;
there's just some bulby cheeks, and hair that feathers
like a red chrysanthemum. And yes, that grin
which—true enough—looks ripped right open,

stuck gamely, like a toddler's, in mindless wonder.
He turns it now on me, that bright thing.
Why does it frighten me (I admit, it does) that