Hoof-hearted

His stare is hoof-hearted
a painfully practised leer
but under those poky glasses
there’s a very wicked sneer.

The smallest of squints
mirror his toxic shame
to unsettle my senses
and deflect his absent blame.

What’s he even doing here
and why’s he looking at me?
He seemed so nice earlier
but that was with Mrs O’Cree.

I feel like screaming
or phoning a friend
his eyes are like needles
fuelled for my end.

But he is a teacher
an upstanding citizen
and I’m just a reader
a tenderfoot denizen.

As I look away for a moment
he gets up to go
back to the classroom
another shaft in his bow.