Checkered Pants

Why is it that I can't look away from that man sitting on the other side of the bar?

Maybe it's the hair the color of tar and eyes the color of charcoal.

Maybe it's the way he slumps down on the stool, dejected or perhaps rejected

Or the way he peers around the room and seems to wince whenever the ding of the bell signals a new arrival.

Maybe it's how he looks at all the people and how those charcoal eyes seem to search their souls

As if they possess something he can't fathom or obtain.

Maybe it's the feeling I get when he locks eyes with me and catches me staring

And all I can see in those dull eyes is fatigue and maybe a glimmer of hope.

Maybe it's the way that glimmer recedes as someone bumps into me and knocks my glass to the waterfall floor

Or how that glimmer is entirely gone when we lock eyes again.

Maybe it's the feeling that gaze gives me as those eyes scour mine

As if he desperately needs me to have eyes only on him.

I break my eyes away from his and look at his attire and find to my desire

He is wearing red-and-black checkered pants.

Perhaps this enigma caught my eye solely due to stark appearance

From the dreary mood of the world over on Chex Avenue.