Surface Tension

His path to grace won’t be his face, I fear;
No noble brow nor Roman prow lives there,
And while his ears would sooner suit a jug
At least they match, and balance out his mug.
What hair’s his own, while fair, so lank and thin
It fails to hide the shine, or mask his chin;
A pity since his jaw needs much more thrust
To help his smile, spread ’cross his dial, win trust.
His specs so dense I can’t make sense, you see,
Where he is aimed — I must suppose it’s me.
I’m puzzled why he’d catch my eye; you’d think
I’d spurn away his offer of a drink…
Yet, what you see is never what you get:
Turned out to be the finest man I’ve met!
I took a chance and put aside my pride,
Looked past his face — and saw the grace inside.