You are the big bad woolf
whose breath hits hot at the back
of my neck. Watch out when your eyes
telescope out like that, a cartoon hand
will slap your cartoon face and leave
a mark so red it burns as your head
pivots on it’s axis. Was she really that
va va voomy? Was that jolt worth the weight
of the loss of respect? You are the big bad woolf,
and the heat and force of your breath
on the back of my neck may move me
forward, shift me on this barstool
a few inches, but I will not be blasted,
I will not fall apart under this duress.
This, sir, is one house you will not blow down.