A sweaty finger slips.
Glaring surface of the piano key
stares like a wide open eye.
 

You extend your hand,
and say their degree.
Black tail-coat sleeve, well-pressed.
"Chin up, back straight, eye contact."
 

A quick look back
from the yellow door.
The sound of rolling luggage
grips your chest.
 

It materializes for you,
this perception, an insiders view,
a colored lens
over nobody's eyes, but yours.

They don't mind it,
so do they care?

And if they do,
make a spring of the support.
And if they don't,
make a fist

and go make change.