His shoulders are a Great Wall,
in front of me in line
at the grocery store. He holds
a mango, a bunch of carrots and a quart of juice
in his arms like clumsy orange triplets.
There is a smile under the heavy corner of his mouth
that he doesn’t unveil.
His eyes are abandoned wells of color, a lack thereof.
They are a dark room
with words on the walls that are not for reading.
A precious resource is one that is so rare, its only purpose is
for locking, for hiding, for holding.
Any tourist can walk the Louvre,
rubber pale necks,
remark at the disappointing size
and degradation of the Mona Lisa.
He does not look at me, he seems instead to dwell within
that room where he recants the words I can not know.