I look into his piercing, brown eyes.
He has more white showing than most,
making the eyes even richer. It’s
more than I remember in the eyes of
the others. I notice that one eye is
shaped like the Eye of Horus, seductive
and protective, and the other smaller
and doesn’t open as far. He looks sad;
he’s from the street, for how long I
don’t know; he’s certainly not saying,
but apparently too long. There is a
certain sadness in those magnificent
brown eyes and a peaceful quiet
signified in his slow, slow blink.
He moves his head back and forth,
his soft brown hair flies. I am re-
minded of a zephyr breeze moving
wheat in waves. He comes and sits
next to me and rests his head in my
lap and asks, begs, “Please stroke
my hair.” It is soft. We fall asleep.