weapon

He walks with a permanent slouch.
Not the old man slouch,
not the hunchback slouch,
not the habit slouch.
His was the kind that people
force on to themselves naturally.
His hands aiming desperately for the ground,
swivelling from his rounded shoulders.
His jowls large, and droopy.
His greeting in the morning like a
tired mule with a mouth ulcer.
But somehow one saw a promise,
a ray of light in his hand,
a jolt of power,
a weapon of mass fuckin destruction.
with just a pen,
a pen in his hand.