A new friend offered some old books of poetry
He no longer wanted, so I stopped by to get them.
I was sifting through the worn names - Eliot, Ginsberg,
And a bunch I’d never heard before - when my friend’s son
Walked in. I smiled and nodded. He gaped at me.
“That’s Joe,” my friend said. “You remember him?”
The boy just stared, his wide eyes scanning my face
Like it was a stain spreading across my head.
Grown men don’t unleash that shameless stare on faces—
Only on stars, or a good film, or on dead animals
When no one else is around. As that boy’s eyes
Dismantled me, I realized why and looked away.