Man in Office

With icy stoicism sculpted on his face
the man embraces darkness, the protective glass
distorting rows of headlights from his little space,
and blurring his perspective. Frigid minutes pass,
commute's been getting longer. Transit cuts. He warms
himself with labored jumps that seem to energize
an indecisive wind. A workplace image forms
in front of him: the dust, the brilliant light, the rise
and fall of presses, the acidic inky stench -
more pay a year ago, what happened? Now his wife
is waiting tables, son needs braces. Try to wrench
the thoughts away, he tells himself: our daily life
will soon improve, the man in office spoke last night.
The bus, at last. And somewhere in the cheery strains
of conversation over cocktails, with polite
attendants, silver trays, and classical refrains
from piccolo and violin, a friendship forms,
with talk of taxes: bad for business, stunting growth,
constraining, curbing freedoms -- never-ending storms
of protest would ensue -- indeed, we should be loath
to even think of it! And in a dignified
response, with all perceptions carved to clarity
as steaks are served, the people's needs are set aside
until the time is right for proper scrutiny.