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January 06, 2006

A salesman’s morning

February 16, 1981

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,
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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