He talks to me,
a Neanderthal.
He thinks
my hands have teeth.
He can smell my fear,
I can taste his fear,
what is fear?
We stand outside
the bar,
goosebumps.
Stray cats
seen at dusk,
like him and I.
Looking for
some kibble,
some kibble,
like the rest of us.
We are antsy.
It is sour.
He minimizes
himself,
digs around
my brain.
I cringe at
each sentence.
The stretch
of his words.
He has time.
The culture was
never ours to
make better.
I smell
the sourness
of his fear
and I know.
