The Hard Stare Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

I had come from the chip shop
around the corner from William Hill
and stepped aside to let him glide
inelegant astride a fat wheel bike
just time for him to give me
a hard stare, that measured
metronome beat of hate for
anything that is free;
in a teen this would be seen
as a chuckleworth of red rebellion
but the hard stare in someone old
is given by that jailbird in the soul
crippled of wing who can't give
who measures intelligence in
defence capability, weakness as
'something in it for me'.
This is the tragedy of the hard stare
its someone in a cage, blind
shaking bars of rage