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 conspicuousâ€”
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 youngâ€”like nothingâ€™s gone
wrong. When you turn, the trees spring back,
defensive. They point to each other all at once,
a dozen limbs like the Scarecrowâ€™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.