A derisive glance clad in pinstripes
Lets me know that he knows my type
And it will earn a look from me that will make him walk faster.
Oh, perfectly tailored master of the conference.
How he scampers from an errant gaze of despondence.
Our eye contact reveals the Great Divide.
A void for which he hasn’t got the time.
But he has got the ability
To sniff out my futility
And cast it the look of contempt he feels it deserves.
And now he knows beyond a possibility
That it has hit a nerve.
Uppity fucking cunt.
He may be dressed sharply, but his honesty is blunt.
And so is mine.
It’s just… harder to define.
All I have is a blank stare he’s scared of.
A look of honest misery he wasn’t prepared for.
As he boards his SUV that’s never been off the road,
I take a breath.
If that man is living what’s called life,
I choose death.
Formes Frustes – Perfectly Tailored (2014)