The Traveling Salesman

My chest heaves unnaturally, sitting in blackness

Someone has made haste, out the door

A chill goes with him,

Enough remains to weigh this body down

Later, when I tell the story

of sinking into proverbial quicksand

They'll all reply

"But of course, it's the Traveling Salesman!"

While overhearing a tale told between two,

of a heaviness that lifted the moment she opened her eyes,

of a chill that lingered until dilluted by light,

I'll know what to say,

what will be of little comfort,

while stroking her hand

"But of course, it's the Traveling Salesman!"

When one wonders why he can't escape

a feeling of constraint

a desire to decline

Powerless to move aside

The Traveling Saleman has time to bide

Lest you open your eyes