The Boy With Eyes Like Headlights

I went to the Secretary of State's office to receive my license today. On the way, I swear I saw my uncle fresh out of rehab. I swear I thought I saw Miguel Pinero's ghost on the sidewalk in his classic rags, three-day beard and fedora ensemble. My mother and I arrived, walked in with the right papers. 'I want a burger' is all on my mind 'And maybe a Coke. Yeah, I could really go for a Coke right now.' We sat across from an obese black man. He wore black dress pants, shoes, socks, black dress, jacket, red dress shirt underneath, and a large golden cross on a golden chain. He was talking to a small blonde boy with eyes like headlights. The boy with eyes like headlights chatted nonsensically, almost in half whisper. The large, religious black man nodded, gave the occasional glance into those big, bright eyes, and let the boy carry on. "Number 71" was called from one of the counters. "Well, that's me. Take care o' you ‘self" said the good black man to the boy. And those eyes, like two moons with deep, blue pools in centered craters, gathered a look of sudden, traumatic loss. He did not cry. He simply turned away and went to sit next to his mother. I watched this as I sat there; and I judged terrible judgments unto everyone there except the black man and the boy; and I questioned as to what drugs the workers there are prescribed. "Number 73" Finally, our number. The woman at our counter was a find looking one; small, perky breasts tried to break free from that tight, tight grey sweater. She was a tan brunette with swampy brown eyes, slightly glazed over, probably from the medication that I was still trying to determine. I started to fantasize of taking her home with m when I noticed the woman working at the next counter was snaggle toothed. Some part of me wished like it were Christmas Eve that she had called our number instead. For those who do not know, Miguel Pinero is twice the poet of any man alive today.