Plant your gaze on anything but his face.
His face—less than ten
in years lived holding orbs
cave-rimmed
dark, deep.
At the traffic signal.
Your car hums a cool song at 42 degrees Celsius.
Pick up your phone and stare at the screen.
His eyes, masterful handlers, will tug
at your gut: Fasting to fit into a new dress.
His eyes will read you. Quick. Hide. Disappear from his gaze— Kohl
Shade—street hardened arrogance.
Put your hand up to wave him away but DO NOT establish eye contact.
He’ll linger at the curb and turn the fan tail
on his bright baseball hat and swing
it so well, you’ll want to peek.
Be Warned! DON’T!
If you do, the kohl will hold you hostage.
You’ll want to help him.
Offer him change. Since you don’t carry small notes, you’ll decide a coffee
is money better spent.
Pray the lights turn green soon.
Because
he’ll open his shop of kohl and plead “Please Miss—I haven’t eaten in three days.” and you’ll be able to hear him.
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.
Smother any stirrings. Think of the dress. The dinner. Look at Google maps instead. Starbucks.
Anything that separates.
Them and Us.
Red snake awaits ahead. You have no patience for children who beg. You know it’s a scam. You do enough
to help others, you tell yourself.
Pretend he’s not real and move on.
Green means go.