Complex

I can still see you on a white tour bus, nibbling potato chips
and theologizing; your captive audience
sometimes escaping to that shoebox of a bathroom
as Massachusetts blurred by beside us.

But as I pass you in a bakery, offering hello,
you are perturbed. Your eyes head for safety,
and the man in your memory frantically scours
files and microfiche for a clue to this strange stranger.

You have forgotten my face and name,
but I forgive you. It simply squares you in the packing box of humanity;
among a sheepish and oblivious crew, captained
by Oedipus, who forgot even his own mother's face,

making love to her in blissful ignorance;
whole worlds swirling unnoticed about the bed.
He was not blind yet, but he was a man.