Soaring Poem by William Graham

He soared like a hawk over Central Park.
He glided gracefully into his Hamptons home.
At a whim he would on a weekend embark
To beach in the south of France, where he roamed

Like a lion—comfortable in his coiled power.
Out of men he pulled money; off women—clothes.
He was their second, their minute, their hour.
He was their poetry and their prose.

When their pride and bodies had been stripped,
He vanished from the manicured lawns and hedges.
Some say into the Panamanian jungle he slipped;
All agree he was too smooth around the edges.