in the waiting room

my eyes

drifting on the others   quiet types   bored

tired   reading   one dozing

two men talking   

two big guys   amiable enough   talking guy talk

i can't hear them distinctly   i can read their body language and gestures

their clothing

their beards and tattoos 

their caps with squeezed down brims   not maga   but close enough   offer hints

my eyes drift away from them   to the tv   to the service desk

to the lifeless scene out the windows

trying 

not to hear the convesations    unable to focus on anything

a woman walks by

one of the two men turns to watch her   gazing and gauging

i can hear his thoughts

i've heard them a thousand times 

i'd fuck her

he turns back to his friend   not a moment's pause in the conversation

he may not think of her again

though he may

tonight

some night

she will never think of him   ever

she doesn't know she's been eye-fucked

or 

maybe she does   and lives with it   sick at thought of it

`