You know the sort

You know the sort, wide mouthed, google-eyes blinking like car lights

the type to stand back from the crowd in dusty tweeds, puff puffing on a pipe.

He’ll have you think he’s unusual, mysterious and you’ll be drawn to speak

with him, but he’ll blow smoke out at you as he disappears into a silver fog.

You know the sort, the kind that follows you to your station; what a coincidence!

You live there too?  His hollow-legged, bad-breathed peacock-haired head

would have you wonder is he or isn’t he?  He’ll ask to send you poetry he’s written-

that dark dangerous dance, his tight grip of an unknown waist, his fish-scaled shoes.

You know the sort, the kind that thinks he’s still in the game, still in with a chance

and you’ll remember when you sat opposite him he raised his top lip slip slip slow

revealing too many teeth that looked like they had been lamb- dipped in blood wine.

He makes you want to peel off your skin, stick erasers in your eyes, become invisible.

You know the sort. He’ll sit close, toogoddamnclose in his skirt made for men, his

apparent(masculinity) resounding out deafening you like booming church bells (and he’ll

hate the fact you move away from him). He’ll find a way to get in touch with some useless,

senseless drivel about how he thinks the Universe has sent a message through him just for you.