The eyes are the windows to the soul. The soul is a house that has windows that are eyes. The soul is a house that has an unusually small number of windows—only two. Don’t say anything. The soul is self-conscious about it. It’s pretty dark inside the soul, on account of there being only two windows.
The under-eye bags are the window-box planters to the soul.
The eyelids are the window shutters to the soul. They’re on the tops and the bottoms of the windows, instead of on the sides. The soul has always got to be different. It’s a little annoying.
The nose is the door to the soul. The soul has little hairs that you have to travel past to get in the front door. The hairs catch germs so that germs can’t get into the soul. Sometimes there are boogers in the foyer of the soul, but sometimes not.
The nose ring is the door knocker to the soul.
The mouth is the front stoop to the soul.
The faint mustache is the welcome mat to the soul.
The lines that go from the sides of the nose to the chin—which used to be called laugh lines but have graduated to marionette lines—are the bannisters to the front stoop to the soul.
The chin hairs are the weeds that sprout up through the sidewalk cracks and come back no matter how often you pull them or how many chemicals you put on them to the soul.
The hair is the roof to the soul. Do you think that the soul should start coloring its roof shingles so that the soul looks a little younger? It’s an old soul, but for some reason no one has called it an “old soul” since the soul was much younger and in considerably better shape.
This silver barrette, shaped like a butterfly, is the chimney to the soul. Do you like it? Does it look stupid? The soul can take it out. Yeah, the soul will take it out. The soul doesn’t need a chimney.
The left ear is the garage door to the soul, and the right ear is the Bilco basement doors to the soul. The soul would like these to remain closed, but they’re both stuck slightly open and stuff keeps getting in.
The skin is the stucco to the soul. And, no, the stucco is not in need of repairs. The soul’s stucco is textured and bumpy. It’s supposed to look like that.
The whole face is the façade to the soul.
The body is the basement to the soul.
The uvula is the light-bulb pull-cord at the top of the stairs to the basement to the soul.
The spine is the rickety staircase running through the center of the basement to the soul. It creaks and shudders. It’s ready to collapse completely. It’s very surprising that such a poorly made structure has such an important responsibility.
The appendix is the old propane tank in the corner of the basement to the soul. It probably used to have a function, but now it just waits for its moment to blow the whole place up.
The liver is the sump pump to the soul. It works hard but sometimes can’t keep up with the amount of liquid coming in.
The belly button is the cat-litter box to the soul. It should probably be kept cleaner, but the soul keeps forgetting.
The spleen is the septic pipe to the soul. You don’t really hear anything about it unless it ruptures.
The stomach is the wiring coming out of the back of the electrical box to the soul. It’s in knots.
The basement of the soul smells weird. It’s supposedly waterproof, but it does leak occasionally. It sometimes feels like wasted space. It’s semi-finished. ♦