On His Blind Side

He must have been behind me all the time,
And sharpening his bloody fingertips.
I think they must have stopped him using whips,
Because he seemed unglued. I dropped a dime
And, since the floor was covered in black grime,
It shone. I'm used to making frequent trips,
With all their usual mishaps and slips,
And bent to gather it back up – a crime.

A dime, however bright, is very thin,
And I would have paid something for a winch
Yoked to a magnet then. He grabbed an inch
Of me, perhaps less; one good chunk of skin
Came off. He said, "That's public space you're in."
They also serve who only stand and pinch.