Partial Sums

Partial Sums

Sometimes when I look at someone, I only key on different fragments of their face.

Like a security camera at the airport,

Or the grocery store. 

I decide that I've learned enough about this person and move on.

But where do I find the gall to make such a calculation,

To summarize a person's life with only a perfunctory glance?

Like an unsolved crossword puzzle abandoned with a half-empty coffee cup.

Even when I look a stranger full in the face, 

It's only for a few moments.

Then I can only smile or frown or simply look away, 

having learned nothing.

Sometimes I try to talk to someone who's helping me.

A cashier checking out my items, 

A repairman fixing our dryer, 

A Samaritan changing my tire at the side of the road.

Just to share a moment. 

If they are bored or lonely or they like to talk,

Maybe they appreciate it.

Otherwise, they put on an invisible surgical mask,

To protect them from my contagion,

And my words hang in the air, dripping with embarrassment.

They do not require me.

In these moments,

It's I who need them.

I want to be seen,

But what do they see?

My nose with its bump, 

My graying hair, 

The loose button on my coat?

That's only a partial sum, 

of me.