The hand was thrust forward,
a missile in manners that aided
the resentment, the cowardly tone
that carried sickly through the owner’s
“What’s your name again?,
unearned smug satisfaction
crept across his bland outer expression
and mocked the monster inside.
Don’t you hate those perfect grin toothed people
who live in sneers and the love
of leaving a scar for you
to itch and pull, the damage done
by ill manners.
Ian D. Hall 2017