You saw him
squatting,
squinting at you
in the dark red air.
Less suspicious
than myopic:
as if he couldn’t
quite make out
just who was there.
He didn’t seem
to care. His grand
achievement
was his hair.
Dark and golden
bright cascading
blare and flare.
You wanted to do
something to
or for him
he’d remember.
You didn’t dare.
.
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