He spreads his weight of muscle and bone on the wooden chair,
Theorizing why his eyes, green as grass, and in the sun grow “plus clair.”
A logical construction: genetics, ancestors, the French occupation, the Mediterranean savoir-faire,
It makes sense, a puzzle seemingly complete and done,
But in my contact list, he remains the brown-eyed man,
a misconception.
He continues, lost in theory of color and design,
And the chair creaks, creaks and creaks
in delusion.
