The hand was thrust forward,

a missile in manners that aided

the resentment, the cowardly tone

that carried sickly through the owner’s

clenched teeth;

“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