I just saw the guy I wrote about in a play.
I just saw him walk past my house
as I sat in the winter sun pretending.
He was real.
His sunglasses shut out his window eyes
Like tinted glass on gangstersâ€™ cars.
His hand brushed the low wall
before he saw me and the dogs barked.
In that moment before he became seen
I could still read his face and the complicated story
of what he was doing
and how it was wrong
and ill fitting that he should be walking here
in this place
at this time.
It told of his past in a moment,
and his regret.
Then he saw me and hardened up,
and moved out slightly â€“ the dogs were loud.
His face crept behind his sunglasses
And he disappeared.