He smears his hair, slick, flick
forward to cover the recession;
he asks the barber to leave it just a touch
longer on top. He winks.
He peruses zeitgeist in pyjamas,
wears bifocals behind closed doors,
he hunts down the right words
to corner women in out-dated wine bars,
pops them like cherries, drops them as the remains
of the night before, he mops up the aftermath,
swift, when in the morning the smile has become killing.
He updates the excel spreadsheet on his quarry,
he uses his therapist like a priest
and she indulges him.
He stalks suburbia like a magpie,
angry, he buries the bones
unrepentant, he buries the bones.