Your M.O.

A wink, a furtive peek, a stare –
your eyes trail everybody everywhere:
you’ll hide or show yourself if it avails –
you’ll disappear into dim tales,

unseen – all watching, silent: or erupt
bare-rumped – abrupt –
into the glare: it does not seem to scare
or put the barest dent in you if others care

about your fat extravaganzas
or your abject absences: your glances
and your driven rapt investigations
and ostensible vacations

from the Ordinary leave you high and dry
and in the sorts of reverie that fly
up to the least accessible small perch –
whose distant view provides a sort of church

to which you do not go to kneel or pray
but rather to inspect that broad array
of all that you refuse to lose
by daring never quite to choose.

But what a shmo
I am to think that I could suss out your m.o. –
reveal the motive in your line.

Unless I’m less describing yours than mine.

.