Heading home, dusk

Anna Szabó

Heading home, dusk, in the park
the homeless chew their apples.
In the bright, big, empty bank
lights flicker on the plastic Christmas tree.
A dark window catches her image
and she steps out of this tight frame.
Who emerges? She stops. She always stops here,
she wants to know. Perhaps now it will make sense.
She returns – looks at the face in the mirror,
but doesn’t adjust her shattered hair:
she watches those eyes. Who’s watching? Who’s there in the eye?
She drops her gaze.
The concrete. Cars. Dust. Dog crap.
She’s here. Her shoes, legs. Her hanging hands.
Stood in the glossy mirror,
among dark pondweed. But her eyes are empty.
There, that’s me. She is. I am. Empty, dark.
Can’t step away. Glass. That’s all she sees.
Look up, light-headed. Whose eyes are these?
The dark current pulls. All glass, all tain.