Art Gomez's "In Stir" watches a man on the edge of a Farmer's Market who seems to be in the grip of addiction or some kind of crisis. The speaker doesn't tell us this outright; the poem simply describes what is seen. The man squirms, mutters, drools onto his threadbare shirt, leans forward at an impossible angle, then jerks upright and slumps against a wall. The word "tourniquet," the only thing he says, hints at drugs, though the poem leaves that as a suggestion.
The speaker stays an observer, and the tone is cold and clinical, close to a camera. The sharp, physical details (spittle, "viscous, thick as lubricant") make us uncomfortable, and it's hard to look away. The ending is the most striking part. The man pulls a bag with a smiley face over his head, hiding himself behind a cheerful picture. The mood is bleak and uneasy, with a quiet sadness about how a person can be seen and ignored at once. The title's pun on "stir" adds to this: he is stirred up, and perhaps trapped.