THE SENSE OF BEING LOOKED AT
Around the corner, footsteps. A heel
clicking stone. The slosh of loose gravel
and then the no-sound itself conspicuous—
even the crickets hold their breath, hush
their rough legs while deep inside houses
women reading bedtime stories pause
to change their endings, one good wish
at a time. A car sails by with its lights off,
but Elvis on the radio still crooning after all
these years, still young—like nothing’s gone
wrong. When you turn, the trees spring back,
defensive. They point to each other all at once,
a dozen limbs like the Scarecrow’s saying,
He went that way. No, no, he went that way.
–from American Fractal
first published in Cranky
I love this poem. I need to buy your book. Good luck with it. I admire your writing.
Beautiful, Tim. This one goes into my electronic treasury.