Cherchez la femme

Hunger gnaws.
But does he pause
because it is way past his lunch?
If truth be told he cannot recall
the last time he munched
on anything at all.
It’s become absurd

how his eyes linger too long
on inappropriate subjects:
children in parks
who stare back
with equal lack of decorum
and are quickly removed
from his predatory gaze.
Pervert.
Or dogs, till they cower
and whine, growl,
outstared,
go beserk.
Or billboards on trains
that merely state:
“Nought percent finance!”
So other eyes turn
to fixate and discern,
in vain, hidden meanings
that lurk.

He cannot dwell on what he must:
the spreadsheet on his desk
which is gathering dust;
what the boss has said;
last month’s rent;
and all he’s spent
without realizing
he’s gone into the red,
unperturbed.

He cannot speak.
To string two words into
meaningful prose,
just enough
to order a drink,
so others would think
he’s not completely morose,
the jerk.

He smiles without reason,
out of time and of season
and just as quick
he would frown.
He’d start up the road,
turn, shiver from cold,
‘cause he’s worn nothing
but his old dressing gown -
for work.