The Grin

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

Fat women walked by
in hand knitted cardigans
over garish summer dresses;
occasionally a leaner version
passed pushing a pushchair
in the park on the path
by the grass.
From the bushes
he watched and fumbled
in the cover of dense foliage,
his glassy eyes savouring
every luscious second
because for once he could be
a grinning leopard.

The smile grew
from under his lips,
curling and snickering,
bland and twisted and wet.

She caught his eye
as she admired the butterflies
on the flowers
that he squashed
as he stepped out
into the open.
And then,
beneath his puckered lips
it grew, a face-quake
almost splitting his pockmarked face
in two, a saurian grin
betraying the beast
that resided within.
It hit her between the eyes,
burning into her sorry brain
an indelible brand of evil
that would never go away,
and then he sprang
his unpleasant primeval surprise.