A poem.

I'm in the middle of hurrying to write 3 more pages about the Holocaust in media in the next hour, but I had a moment of inspiration(?) so I stopped and jotted this down. It needs work, but I like it. Especially the fat lady.

hidden gazes
stolen glances
across a crowded room.

soon, I say
I’ll walk on by
nonchalant
casual like.
trying not to stare at her…
there’s a lump in my throat.
she turns.
I duck and cover
behind the fat lady
with the red purse
and three kids who go running by.
I peer…
she's still there.
the brats spill fruit punch
on my shoes.
over the fat lady’s shoulder, I see
the laugh rises in her throat.
she chokes it back
but her eyes can’t lie.
amid the chaos they dance

and then
the fat lady moves

and there he is.
his dark eyes widen.
in the headlights, he freezes
crimson climbing up his cheeks
like a bounty paper towel
soaking up spilled punch.
I can’t hear anything.
just Bach running through my head
the lone cello…
I can’t see anything.
the fat lady has dissolved and it’s only
him.
the second lasts for hours in my mind
and when the music stops
he turns away.
I’m not blind.
you don’t want to look me in the eyes
because that’s the only place you see yourself
because you know I always see you.
I see you.
I see you.