A salesman’s morning

February 16, 1981

Why,
Why won’t she let me in?
The old woman shivers inside her door,
Her gnarled hands firmly on the lock,
Shaking her head resolutely.

Around me a cold rain—thunder murmurs impersonally
Along this desolate, leafy road.

Why now,
When I so much need for her to let me in
Talk to me
Like me
Is she keeping those old hands on the lock?

Does she fear me,
Me?
I tense up.

I turn, walk stiffly down her overgrown path,
Refusing to let her see the bitter anger
Squeezing from my eyelids.

I proudly swing open my car door,
Feeling her eyes piercing my back.

I smoothly get inside,
By myself,
Turn on the engine
And cry.
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