What to look at except the kid
who smiles from the ads above us,
tilts his head to swing in panel after panel
the hair from his forehead. There’s something he wants us to know
about the joys of haircare. We focus
on spots of air. Still, our gazes wandering, meet.
of the eyes, twigs shifting in the wind
made to touch briefly, or a flame
that darts so quickly away
all one ever sees is the after-image of fire.
Pain, glimpsed. Joy.
We sit here, so close— it means nothing.
We touch: these plastic seats arranged us.
Small hollows, shallow egg carton.
What to do when one of us cracks except glance
at the map, avoid
our own eyes in the glass how they stare back
with blank intensity.