He’s wondering about his niche
He’s begging for the opportunity to
Prove successful.
Slam his car door and brush the trace of caked
Michigan car salt off his right suit sleeve
Flick his wrist and confidently snap
Southworth Parchment Paper sheet of embellished accomplishments
Flat for inspection
There in the expansive lot of American vehicles
That lug suits, briefcases, little plastic badges with little plastic smiles and blank eyes
Back and endlessly-forth like ants at a picnic
He thumbs the Zippo and gulps in the sweet Marlboro Red calm
Big Brother has nothing on the Big Three but plenty on him
This thought compels him to question whether he
Should feign conformity or individuality
Because “be yourself” only applies to
First dates and even then is terrible advice
Trudge toward the concrete façade
He rehearses the answers he must offer
To sell himself
December 12, 02
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