The Eye, Or, Just Waiting

Above the counter, a silent, black sphere,

rotating slowly, casting out fear.

Or not fear, exactly, just a dull dread,

that every movement is watched, every word said.

Its convex lens, a fish-eye stare,

writes a warped story of what's happening there.

My own shape, a blur, in its glassy sheen,

just another motion, always unseen.

It doesn't blink, doesn't judge, doesn't care,

just takes in the data, hanging in air.

A cold, patient eye, with no heart to mend,

just recording, recording, without an end.

And I felt small, a fly on the wall,

under that gaze, watching us all.

Just waiting, I guess, for a mistake to unfold,

a tiny drama, silently told.