Library book in hand

You’d have no idea

What seethes within him

Sleek without

Being disingenuous

Polite without

being paralysed

He writes

The truth of himself

For the barrelling swagger

Of boys who believe manhood

Is solely capacity

He is quiet

And certain

He would pull out your chair

And whisper what he

Wants to do to you

After dinner

But the women know

Their glowing glances

Reach but do not pierce

He is the prize

And the words he writes

The glimmer of light

Off precious metals

The worth he holds

Quiet until the door closes

Skin ruddied with a good shave

The coach arrives

He steps aboard

The seat next to him

Not taken or available

But should someone decide

They would like to sit with him

He would smile

Say hi and

The warm brown eyes

Offer a welcome

Seldom seen

But felt with primal

Depths