That time of year
has finally come
when we leave our homes,
cloaked in darkness,
to go to work
instead of meeting
unfaithful lovers.
The pale eye,
with neither iris
nor pupil,
is watching us.
Its ghastly stare
follows me
as I shake off
the last odd chills
at the bus stop.
Well past the blue hour,
by the time I arrive,
it is still there,
lingering through sunlight
refusing to disappear,
a couple of ebbs more
to orchestrate
before delivering us
from its weird glare.
The cosmic discomfort
of unusual persistence.
A hanger-on,
beautiful and brutal,
in revealing who
the overstaying guest
really is.
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