And he sat down on the edge of my jacket and looked
at me startled when I tugged it out, the drag
of the zipper odd under his khakied thigh.
And I looked up and his eyes were like does’ eyes
and his lashes spiked like burring jimson weed
seed pods if those could be beautiful.
And then I was the startled one and said sorry.
And he flinched away from my startlement.
And the Metro driver saved us by stopping
at the next stop and ordering us all out
of the train. And I did not think of him again
until now. And the burr of that fear clings to me.
And I wonder how I frightened him with me
and my middle aged dumpiness and he
young and likely able to destroy me with a fist.
And his eyes were brown.