Furthest Right

The Watcher


They notice
Among all they will not —
The lone man,
Long legs relaxed, standing still,
Watching. Observing —
The traffic pass
The details of the earth and air
The faces
And that gives them pause.

He sees
The cars going past linked
As far apart as train cars
On the routes that built the West
The people beneath the clothing
The men in suits (who would be boys)
The joggers barely wrapped (like products on shelves)
The wary cops (who have seen the unstable heart of humankind)

Relentless, without judgment,
Or feeling
His eyes sweep them all
Whisking each piece of trash into view
Seeing the lax face of each inattentive driver
Catching the boredom, frustration and impotence
Possessing that moment from them, but sharing it
He sees
Too much, they think,
Wish government would send him a job
Hope that it has not done so already

In many faces
He reads the chimeric shimmer
Of a thought:
That some day, perhaps a truck,
Or a car with wobbly brakes
Will skid over and jump the curb
Crush him into the faded green grass
Close those eyes and end all that
He sees

This world hates a witness
Distrusts an observer
It hides behind its busy rumble
Many things that can be seen
A watcher ruins it all

He sees
The resentment submerged
As busy fingers hammer away
On the keys and levers
The vacuum of doubt
Encroaching from a place without appearance
The dark formless within
He knows

And they hate him for it

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