I remember when Kissy Face smoked dope for the first time.
He had a panic attack.  It was crazy.  He ran around barefoot,
crying, hyperventilating, an explosion of hysterics.  He was
wearing sparkling pink polish on his toenails (most of them, that is.)
It had been there, I knew, since Xmas day.  It was badly chipped and
faded, veined with tiny cracks showing naked nail.
	I held those bare feet in my lap.  When I thought he had fallen
asleep I kissed the big toe of his left foot, narrow and pale,
pink soles, a tiny tuft of light hair along the top.
	I saw his pink lips, slightly damp, slightly pursed,
matching the polish.  I watched him breathing, mesmerized.
	Who could keep from loving Kissy Face?  Who could ever
want to hurt him?  I have never seen that shade of nailpolish,
not since.  The colour left with Kissy Face, never to return.