I could see exhaustion under his collar,
the wear in the skin of his briefcase,
the trudge of his leather soles,
I remember the first thing I noticed,
was the weight of his eyelids,
the neglectful way he shaved along the folds
in his face,
causing sores and redness to erupt
the surface of his skin.
I could hear the dialogues spewing;
the sales calls,
folding over each other in a pit
near his stomach.
always of tomorrow.
The tomorrows’ building
into becoming nothing,
no thing at all.
Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets