He looks my way as we sit in the chain salon
awaiting our haircuts, and I wonder if
“my way” is at me, since he repeats
the twists of neck—but my eyes cannot certify
since I keep them down on my phone
and remember a friend of adolescence
who would become incensed if he sensed—
or imagined—a male glance of any duration
upon him so prepared for battle against
the stranger with perceived evil eye
but that territory is far away now so I
chalk up this present male’s repeated
scans in my direction to a concern
far from me, unknown to me so continue
to monitor him only casually, peripherally
my hands never curling in adolescent
anticipation of an opportunity of displaying
my simian mettle upon a member of another
tribe who turns toward me typing on my haptic
screen, truculence only in a long-gone other eye
Photo by mostafa meraji on Unsplash
