The Ceramic Heart

I wonder what the head turners,
the stunning picture models
barbie-made in their pretty dresses
think of me as my head turns?
I wonder what it's like to be one of them.
Is it like
being a speed reader
surrounded by the illiterate?
Do they feel like the Babe
at a tee-ball practice game?
Or is it like being a chef,
with only dogs to feed for the time being?
Are our
starving eyes like beams
sending good feelings?
Or like vultures
winging our suck rays
aimed at the ceramic heart
I wonder if the beautiful
care that their shit stinks?
Would you if you never had to smell it?
I wonder if bruises hurt as much
or twice as bad
for fear their lottery ticket
blows away in the changing winds?
Should I thank my stars for
average looks,
average heart,
average life,
and average art?