Self-portrait with Extracted Eye

There are ironies we won’t touch, even with an indifferent
paintbrush. Ochre and brown decorates the half-room
with the half-table and most of the cherrywood chair.
We enter a space without knowing the contents and soon
discover we have lost something along the way. Where
do you think it fell out or was plucked with an instrument
by someone surgically trained? A good knock would
have not necessarily de-socketed it, but let us presume.
But back to the room: who is lurking on the sinister side?
Turn head left to accommodate remaining eye, right?
I’ve never had to perform contortions to be understood.
Guy keeps swinging just left, just left, and I keep missing.
Stop it, man, I want to see your face and not just your
brown corduroy sleeve, I want to size you up and not for
sake of violence, but just to see if you’re really listening
to my story and show any interest in me at all. I might
be worth a few moments of your time, but you keep
moving, man, bearing left, always left. Why not right
for a beat, little two-step perhaps? Let me chill while
I’m here, not knowing why but bent on making peace
or sharing news with someone who will not stay still.
And by peace do I mean we have been at war? Stop
moving, enemy or friend, obscured either willfully
or by virtue of dream-logic, madness, or psychotropics.
But by now vertigo predominates the vibe and he
will not stop moving and I will only see him fully
when I find my misplaced eye, such are the optics.