The Eyes in Our Heads

The Eyes in Our Heads



The mirrored sunglasses
Stop everything short

His
Mine

Mine having been
On the road
Alone with me
In motels for a month running

His just half a foot over
The Formica table
In the gas station "country store"
His face forward

Blank
Resting

At a level to quietly communicate
With a dull red ketchup squeezer

An extra inch of
Brown handlebar could
Drag crumbs
Across his biceps

Laid out flat and forward
In front of him
Like one long, thick arm
Hands clasped at the end

As if in thanks

As if.

Our
Eyes, uncovered
Would have
Met

As I head
To the head
But I won't be
Giving any.

Mine
His

Are
Reflective.

Are

Shaded.