Old Man Eyes
by Diane Webster

Old man sits alone
facing café court crowds.
Eyes rove like gunslinger eyes;
his hand fingers the crook
of his cane like the butt
of a Colt .45.
Whack you with wood
or dead-eye bullet
no difference to him.
His narrowed eyes
see all except
the woman who lays
her hand on his shoulder.
He smiles
a schoolboy love
romping across the reflection
in his eyes like a ripple
across mountain pond.

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