on a rainy saturday, you say
"you're a wolf, they say":
the sleek line of my hair perhaps,
lenin's goatee too much to the point?
the sharp cut of my eyes
beneath a furrow of thought?
was it the way i read the paper?
or slurped my coffee without lifting the cup?
ah, perhaps just that, my lean eyes
flashing sidelong, dissecting life
with radar-essential penetration
beneath a mind obviously unrelieved by sleep.
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