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a cigarette behind the bikes shed

edge to him of shiftiness and cool,

a gaze that scoffs at niceties

and does not suffer fools,

he curls his lip at subterfuge,

the bland patina of guile,

he’s finely attuned to

the subtle malice of a smile.

he strides like a musketeer

through a frozen courtyard,

sweeping all before him

in a fever for the truth.