In Passing (Lygon)

The poet said well: the eyes slide from the passersby going along. Does no good for either side, observed or observer, looking too hard. Usually does no good; can't always be avoided. The smartly dressed Italo passing on Lygon this afternoon gained nothing from the switch-blade look, nor certainly the piercing stab that followed. Reason being the altogether inferior hair-piece. What was he thinking? Perhaps the duck-tail behind wasn’t tucked properly this morning; come loose during the course of the day, the footfalls; &etc. On the other hand the Tiamo owner buying fruit down the far end didn’t mind the close attention drawn by his pointy black buckled shoes that Berlusconi himself must have reserved for the bunga-bunga parties. A treat; leather of a kind rarely seen on the street. Pretended not to notice, the man. Nice chap. Emptied his coins into the hands of the beggar sitting on the footpath outside Readings. Mostly it doesn’t do to have the eyes on stalks. Certainly not examining every passing face, every mark of weakness and woe. Nor beauty either. Those compulsive days of hard looking were over. Pass on by, Stranger.