His Eyes (April 6)

He made a meal of her
first watching like
she was a spool of film
chattering through the gate
imprinting on his eyes
on the silvery celluloid
fluid in his eyeballs.

She was unaware
he, shaded with newsprint
making his eyes then
typewriter carriage
eyes - tick across
each line, ping back
This I suppose
was the script.

This was only breakfast.
He mopped up the grease
angled his fork and knife
towards four o'clock.
He'd play it out
in the darkness of his room,
eyes then - golf ball inners
tight bound like rubber,
tight shut on shame.