Passing By

The wing is gray. Not the gray

of ash, the gray of concrete

that's been walked on for years.

One eye still open to the curb.

I've passed it three times.

Wednesday the same position.

Friday I stopped looking

at the sidewalk.

Today I looked.

A woman stepped over it without

hesitation. Her shoe cleared

the body by inches. She kept going.

I do the same. Look away instead

of past. As if that matters.

As if the difference between

seeing and not-seeing

changes what's already

on the ground.

The eye didn't blink.