Furniture Salesman

Poem By Malcolm Evison

Too late, even to sell
himself. The air is silent.

Distinct servility
lurks behind

that benign smile -
lacking expectancy.

Once there was the quiet
thrill of anticipation -

a first transaction
in the adult world -

but that first tremor
soon began to wane.

Once he waxed lyrical
to tell of all

the benefits
the purchaser might find:

now he's resigned -

too late
even to sell himself.

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