Mr. infinite malevolent
tall, crooked dude
rolled gracefully
swank
into a dockside
dive. He looked
narrowly 'round.
He could easily kill
all here. The naïve
bartender still dreaming
of Ezra Pound, or the
sailor, who's probably
wise and kind, sat next
to the wanton highway man,
that rogue, sat next to the whore
in his business attire.
A perfect imperfect sampling
of men.
But then came the fire
His vile eyes caught hard
on her. Wholesome
in parts and whole
and sum, and
probably hole
and heart,
and all.
It was like
he had swallowed his gum.
Her simple
sweet good girl
act was a tease
which was true,
all through from top
to bum, and her outfit
said nothing at all
on that score.
One of those
thrift store
quirky jobs, but damn
well-done.
Mr. crooked tall dude
bowed sheepishly.
He couldn't kill the place
full of all these slobs
with her around!
And he suddenly knew
he was not so infinite
malevolent, now.
In fact
he felt no malevolence
at all! His whole damn life,
was it just some passing
mood
he'd been?
If so, who
was now responsible?
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