Six or seven salesmen pulled and dragged
on filtered cigarettes in the drab small office
they called home base. Coffee cups, post-it notes
and the incessant honk and roar of traffic
raked the air they sucked with those smokes.
Conversations with wary customers on cell
phones overlapped, crashed, collided in space,
sweat and dread of unclosed deals ate
their souls, paled their faces, tore their
confidence into shreds,
spoken syllables
of half truths left them
emptied mumbling,
the other half dead.
Every Thursday after/
noon the museum of art
three blocks down
had free admission to its
rooms of beauty.
These men never went,
never left their gunmetal
desks to venture forth
and view Miro
or Matisse,
sat slumped on chairs
until draped in dark,
chain smoked, cajoled,
telephoned and lied,
dialing with art,
did their duty,
day after day
dreaming release,
yet in their mad steamy midst,
a big untouched bowl
of fleshy bright oranges
and soft unsold rain
pounding the street
spoke straight in real language
that mattered
(yet acknowledged by none)
no matter the deal.
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