Can you see it?

Can you see it?

If you can

What can you do

When it is all

Just a judgement call

And we all know a judgement

Is a smidgeon short of

An educated guess.

The pinched and sharp-nosed guy

The squinty, flinty-faced

One with his hands clutched

On the wheel of an MGB

With the hood down

In the rain.

Him.

The man with the cigar mouth

Too much weight in his girth

Too much sparkle on his finger.

The one who eats a steak

Too well-done

Charcoaled into carbon

Always leaves his greens

Wears plus fours to golf

Rides on a cart

To the course.

Carries a hip flask

Filled up with brandy

Has a nip before every shot

Covers his breath

By eating candy

Has a wayward look for a lost ball

But has a hole in his trousers.

Him.

The guy who walks with a swagger

For no reason at all

But carries himself with a sense

Of import

Shoulders back

Tummy tucked in

Until a few drinks later

When his walk is a stagger

And he lashes out

At anybody who gets in his way

Him.

Did you see it?

The look

Was it in his eyes

How can you tell

Nobody really knew

Not even his mother,

Nor the profiler

On a television cop show

Can really know.

The professional reader

The psychologist with the degree

In psychometry

The guy who analyses the analyst

Nobody knows

Not absolutely.

It’s always a judgment call

A matter of fine lines

It’s how bad things happen

To good people.

It is all we can do

Not to stereotype

Him.

But we are all hard-pressed

To stand up to scrutiny

Even the professionals

Are amateur detectives

When it comes to picking

All the bad actors

Out of a chorus line.