All eyes—on the blind man
as hesitantly he stepped
into the elevator and faced
front, pivoting on his cane,
leaning so far forward
the electric eye that watched him
kept the door open.

Not a word was spoken.
All eyes—turned downward.
Embarrassment hummed
but never spoke within the taut group,
then became whispered impatience
that became silent buzzing and whirl
inside that cube of human cargo.

How do you explain to a blind man
the eye of a hurricane?

Open like that, the door allowed
one more human to slip in.
The blind man must have sensed
the new presence, the smell
of finished talcum, because he stepped back
to give her space before they all heard
an end-of-day voice project
in his direction: Thanks for holding it.


From The Eyes Have It (Turning Point, 2018).
Used with the author's permission.