Furniture Salesman Poem by Malcolm Evison
Furniture Salesman
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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/18/2024 10:00:24 PM # 1.0.0.1119
