30/30 – Day 17
A quick poem, inspired by the creepster at the bus stop on the way home from work.
The denim of his jeans has been worn
soft as lamb’s wool. He sits his bike
with all the cock-sure swagger
of a prize stallion.
His grin is a feral dog’s,
hungry and watching,
he licks lips made for brass-knucle kisses
Dark eyes dance with calculation,
they dress bruises as moonlight and giggle.
He needs no coat in this chill, skin dry
and goosepimpled but still singing summer,
he is not looking for portable warmth.
His hands are clever,
calloused by wrench and engine oil,
nimble enough to pick a chest
clean as an unguarded pocket.
You will know him when you see him.
Your senses still,
you smell the start of the hunt.