The Woman Child

When the woman child flees to the corner,
You know there's a shark in the room,
And as he steps a commanding foot through the door, 
The doe people fan out like minnows.
They know—don't think they don't.
But here in the corner huddles the woman child,
Who, too young for her body,
Has a sixth sense.
She can see him walk up the cobblestone path—
Whoever he might be.
She can feel his lusting breath on the doorknob—
However he looks.
she can hear the insinuations in his voice
—  whatever it says.
Which is usually a question, anyone home?
More like a statement. 
Dilated eyes of a shark when he smells blood, intimidation. 
It doesn't matter that she won't open the door,
He's coming for them, through the window, 
With a hammer, he's banging, he's shuffling,
He's swimming, he's here. 

He's here. Ah. 
To take his pick, let him —
Let him gravitate toward her,
Smiling, teeth bared. 
Because every woman child who
Huddles in the corner,
Conceals a harpoon.