Cyclops, Part 3

What is it like to only have one eye? they ask.

And by the way I don’t believe I caught your name?

I almost don’t know where to stare, aghast,

My insecurities now dialed up past insane.

This is the perfect party on the perfect night,

The legendary literary out in droves proclaim.

Sardined between the farther couch and spite,

I watch the catty A-list people do cocaine.

With wild and sensate hair grasping the air like hands,

I crouch obscurely in a corner dripping shame,

When, lo, a girl alights the stair and scans the crowd,

Resting her eyes on me - on me - among this weird terrain.

The heart’s capacity is greater than we think,

That she could break me tenderly with that one passing wink.