In the corner; the man with the typewriter
constantly fixing his hair
eyes escaping up, trying to dart back and forth, only to be escorted back down
collections of secrets all over and inside his body
lost in detail and anonymity
magazines he has never read
conversations he will never have, already strategized
written down like word pornography
shades pulled together to the point where they are overlapping, like it would make a difference and the volume of the television barely audible in case he listens
saved missives from god knows how long ago
clothes he will never wear again folded perfectly
each hidden tattoo a reminder of a mistake in his life,
and the curious outfit he wears barely hiding them all
The people that proclaim loudly that they don't care what anyone thinks of them are the people that care the most. Crumples it up and throws it away.
I hear it's snowing in Houston today.