I feel old
And in the lights
And warm stages of the evening
Where my stories are told
I see eyes
Don’t fire until you see
The whites of their
Eyes
But the whites don’t tell the story
The colours, the rings of humanity
Around the holes
Where light gets in
Those left by parents
That see the moments
Belonging to you
The rings are what I seek
But as I stand
The whites of eyes reflected
Given precedence by stage lamps
And perception
I see a canvas
Blank pages of memory
The flash of the camera
Allowing us to capture a moment