There is a man in front of me pumping
Gas into his car at Costco – and he is looking around,
Trying to make eye contact or connection
With someone, I think . . . anyone. He glances
To my car several times, but I am wearing sunglasses
And can therefore angle my head away
While keeping my eyes pressed on him –
Such busy eyes, as gas churns into his car,
Roving the lot, into other cars holding faces, outside too,
The shirt not long enough to cover the belly
Pouring out from beneath and center,
A round pot, two hands full, of belly flab.
It wasn’t until his gas tank was full
And he had maneuvered himself around
To replace the nozzle, that I see a tag
At the nape of his shirt, my head no longer
Averted but rather focused straight
On him because he is not looking at me
Or another now but rather working to fix the nozzle
In place – and as he walks around to replace
His gas cap I confirm that the shirt is indeed
Inside out because the care instructions tag
Is affixed to the left seam of his shirt and it is
Flapping in the wind.
Other clues become apparent – a collar that
Will not quite lay down, an odd faded look
To the stripes, and a quarter inch seam sticking up
On either shoulder and around to the armpits . . .
And I keep a moment of wonderment
For the man with the hungry, searching eyes
Who does not know by either sight or sense
Or design – that the shirt his own body wears
Is inside out.
Is inside out.
