tugs his short robe over his thighs.
It keeps riding up when he leans forward
in the rolling chair at his desk.
He thinks he feels eyes on him,
avoiding him at the same time
and wonders which he should want.
Filling cups is easier than herding
and everyone has been so kind to him.
A tall woman showed him how
to make coffee: the blinking eye
of the machine, the shining red foil,
filters the color and texture of wool.
When the phone rings,
he doesn't flinch. He gets used
to the bite of the wind, even
to feeling cold indoors,
to the way the light glares sharper here,
so high up, through long panes of glass.
And it feels so good to be chosen,
to move his new self in this new room,
the echoing stairways and halls.
He thinks he left half-willing
but you do not stay barefoot
on the hillside with the sheep.
You do not watch the sky for an eagle
and wonder what lucky child
is pressing his nose to feather and air.