They shuffle in wearing ill-fitted shoes
polished to a mirror like sheen.
black laces pulled tight as they can be pulled
still leave their feet loose within;
folded inside, otherwise useless, documents
tucked as wadding in around the ankle:
maybe that memo no one wanted to read
or would ever admit to reading, even seeing,
a projection of death tolls and popularity
across the horizontal axis of time.
One sits, crosses his legs such that skin shows above
his thin black socks, wiry hair on his shin. That joke
about the indolent tailor and his hapless client
comes to mind —poor man, but doesn’t the suit fit nice?
Tom Driscoll Writing 