There is a picture I froze,
a frame from a lame movie,
two detectives, a man
and a reasonably pretty woman
on an obvious trail.
Against a highrise,
he is thinking aloud.
She is shorter, with dark,
long, unadorned hair.
She looks up and sideways.
In profile, her eyes appear white.
There is a line above her eyebrow.
He looks ahead.
His head is tilted back,
his jaw pointing the way.

Her concentration,
even if simulated
is still innate.

The way she is not there.
Or, the way she synchronizes,
for a second, to become two.

Men are often alone.
They go about their life
as if in a cloud.

Not selfishness,
more a subdued sense
of touch and smell,
disconnected from the ground
they were given birth unto,
one dimensional in intent,
lost in power play.

This intelligence
that killed off all the beasts,
that created instant
gratification in war.
This childishness.


jam16