I listen as he chats with me, silken

Words flowing with practiced ease,

Soothing as a murmuring brook,

Substantial as a capricious breeze.

All the while he scans the crowd,

Easy jocularity crinkling his jaws,

To see what pigeons might be found;

Effortless patter cloaks his claws.

It’s hard to resist the bonhomie

Behind the facile, bantering chatter

Or the graceful, practiced charm

Reassuring me nothing's the matter.

As he talks he surveys the room,

Until I realize, with a relieved shock,

He's suddenly changed his mind;

I’m no longer the intended mark.

He moves off with a friendly nod,

Closing in smoothly on richer prey;

I swear I see  a fang gleam briefly

In that boyish grin as he glides away.

© Thurman P. Woodfork

6/2/2007