Am I getting through to you, now?

 

An odd shuffle of the feet and an erratic
flicker of the fingers betray that Judas smile.
“Hello,” slimes from rubber lips to my ears,
escalating tension to clenched rage.

I don’t bother to disguise my disgust.
Today, buddy, I am ready to communicate.
“No, I don’t want to talk to you.”
My boot swiftly kicks your shin.

“No, I don’t want to get in your car.”
My elbow slams into your ear.
“No, I will not ‘see you later.’”
My fist grabs your shirt into a ball —

“Say hello to my pal.”
— and introduces your face to the lamppost.
I straighten my clothes, ready for
my walk. Pest controlled.






Dedicated to anyone who has had to face slimeballs who do not get the message. THE MESSAGE is written here in 'fist-speak'. This is in response to Magdalena's poem "Cretin..."
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/104450-cretin/