Staring at Uncle Ben’s beautiful,

bronzed  “chrome dome” with

snow-white fringe on the package

of converted rice, the man thought

about being a bushy haired young

man of twenty-seven or eight and

visiting another Uncle Ben and

observing his beautiful, bronzed

“chrome dome” and the snow-white

fringe in the little, four-room

cinder-block house converted into

a restaurant Uncle Ben owned in

rural Kentucky. He and his wife

fixed fine, fried chicken dinners

family style.  Now all these years

later, he’s envious of  those beautiful,

bronzed “chrome domes.” He is sure

Bardstown Ben has passed on to glory,

but the other Uncle Ben is frozen

in time on a box on a shelf. The

man now stares at a pale, white

skinned “chrome dome” pate

every time he looks in the mirror

or at his reflection in the window

of the grocery store as he passes

after having visited Uncle Ben on

a box.