The Weasel Eye

He had always thought his eye—
Hazel iris, blue sclera,
Carpet-bagging possum lids—

Awkwardly intrusive, like
Someone with no social skills,
Self-invited late-comer

To lively conversations,
Bringing the fun to a halt
With poorly told anecdotes,

Blundering shaggy-dog jokes,
And needless explanations.
Wherever his eye popped up,

He tried to whack it himself,
But it just blinked and rolled back.