Malcontented Walrus Man

Somehow he oozes free
from a car designed for a being
a fraction of his mass.
Ego-swollen, he appears to have made
an inescapable life jacket of his self importance.
His tiny, malice-filled head and disproportionately scrawny neck
are the knot on his body's balloon.
He patronises women
while imagining them naked.
Leering at their turned backs.
Sycophantic to their faces.
Bullying and deceitful
he counts tears and anguish as conquests.
I wonder, will he ever taste his own medicine?
Chaos and finger-pointing, gossip and harrasssment.
He does not deserve compassion.

18th Century Man

He is jarring against
the concrete, high street, 60% viscose, quick fix, app twisted backdrop.
He swims into focus-
rough hands, soft eyes, timeless face.
Canvas trousers and half tucked shirt.
Kindly, undistracted, universally caring.
His portal is behind an unremarkable, once well painted, brown gate.
I wonder if he notices when he emerges into this era?
He doesn't seem to.
I wonder is it a portal of the body or the mind?
His bicycle and mother are well tended.
His auburn thatch is not.
Without a single note of irony,
he whistles.

I wonder.
Is it a portal of the body or the mind?