Staring at me

You can see it,
but the capucinno spilled,
tumbling in my direction,
as a lost lamb,
splintering wood,
we all can see -
but not he.

Glancing, a spy novel
bleats blood, as
we all know that
summer blends blanks,
for guns not aimed,
nor taken in stead.

Those magazines are
not really mine,
they just sprang into
action, my hand, yours
eyes peeled for flesh
that stares.

Nonchalance travels
so fast it dovetails,
loitering in feathers,
still the way that
they keep fresh,
toward that man
acting.

The pair, mother, daughter -
embarassed but acknowledging
gravity, the situation calls
for style, governance,
correction - freedom
to become lax.

Now it isn't really looking
at me. But my mind bends
in that gravel pit, furrows
of dirt upturned, for
manure that clarifies my
brain on trash.

© 2013 Larry Ingram