I’m talking Kavanaugh’s wide sidewalk in
the Heights, or Park Plaza’s enclosed concourse,
or the Buffalo Grill’s aisle, you moving
from front door to your table, your resource
your focused stare each time, tracking a babe
or gent walking toward you, past you, while you
watch, patient as Freud, Pasteur, or Sam Spade
or the Man with No Name, 'cause you value
eye contact—drive-up window to the gut
and groin (forget about the soul)—some hint
from a stranger, signal you exist. But
each time (right?), from babe or gent, not a glint
of your presence…’til…that…instant instance…
just…when your…two bodies pass…their eyes glance…
Roger Armbrust
June 21, 2009
