Tropism: Behind the Quonset Huts

I had ignored him so far, and assumed I could continue to do so.  He stood a bit apart, left of the old backstop, well behind me...and I could catch a view of him in the reflection of my glasses if I wanted to.  Or not: I chose instead to focus forward, paying no attention to him at all, and in fact to ignore the overt fact that I was ignoring him, pouring myself into the details of the Eucalyptus deglupta across the culvert. 

But although I could fool myself, I could not fool him.  Calmly, passively, and without any hint of intent, his eyes were fixed upon me like a bird of prey.  I knew this without looking.  It was a pencil-point touching my neck.  We must have stood like this for a half-dozen cycles of the corner stoplights.

I redoubled my efforts to seem purposeless, to remain unaware and apart, my fists punched into the pockets of my pants.  So focused was I upon this that I did not hear his approach, his soft old shoes nearly silent against the decomposed-granite playground.  He was right there, just behind me, before I knew it.

He spoke.  Suddenly, I remembered everything.

Circle Poem: A Hopeless Thought

A hopeless thought has sunk into my brain
And in my brain it finds a wealth of fuel
An unconsidered fuel made of disdain
As all disdain seems clever to the fool
I am the fool who yields the war unfought
For pain unfought becomes a soft refrain
An older, cold refrain that holds each thought
A hopeless thought has sunk into my brain