For My Friend Rachel or For Anyone Who Has Ever Been Caught Off-guard by a Set of Stern Eyes in the Window

I don't have to whisper.
So few will remember that
it will keep you empowered for ages:

The next time you have your feet kicked up
sipping a tasty beverage, shirking stoicism,and having
one of those grand old times away from the human duty of feigning Sisyphean effort,

Don't you stop just because
that new king of the jungle, the boss, peers in at you.
Nay . . . ney, neigh, ne ne ne! Wave him in!

That wave, that mere motion,
it mesmerizes and will probably do the trick,
but if not, chase him down!

Bare those teeth like a Caucasian Shepherd.
Hold out your hand, and watch him hold out his paw.
It's a reflex. That's nature working for you.

Now, that plover might shift his weight, try to sumo it up.
Relax. It's only false-brooding.
Steady him with your other hand on his arm.

Look him in the eyes. Show him how sharp yours are.
Sharper even than your teeth, which should still be promising
annihilation as only BFFs can deliver.

He's gonna know you see his nest and that it's made of straw.
He's gonna know that you know that his puffed up mane is a scaredy cat's tail,
a distraction display.

He's gonna know that you're no plover.
You're an eagle-eyed conflation of owl, fieldfare, and big bad wolf,
and you're gonna bombard him with pellets of your own shit,

themselves made of the indigestible bits of his mousey kin
and that that shit, THAT shit is gonna grease up his wings
and he's gonna find himself flightless and debauched and easy prey

for the next guy sitting comfortably for once,
when he dares give himself away
by opening his eyes in that cave of bitter resentments.