I feel a particular kind of pity for
people who are almost beautiful.
You must have met such miss-outs – the woman who
could have been Helen, but her Attic nose
is a smidge too small, or bum just too big; the poor
jackass whose jaw, chiselled and masterful,
would qualify him for the Happy Few
if his steadfast eyes weren’t that tiny bit too close.
But maybe saddest of all are those whose looks
tick every single Cosmo box, and yet
the sum of their perfect parts is unbeddably bland –
Homer wouldn’t have had them in his books
although (because?) they’d never have been a threat
to Ilium’s topless towers, which might still stand.
Published in HQ 50