Businessman

Middle-aged man in a suit
Thin eyebrows furrowed below his receeding hairline
Ugly tie over immaculate white shirt
Starched collar absurdly tight around his neck

I stare across at him
A mix of repulsion and morbid curiousity going through me
It's like a car crash
I'm not really sure why I stare at him

This is what powers America?
A sparse amount of greased hair, talking on a cell phone?
Spotless black pants, uncomfortable shoes,
And a permanent look of concentration burned on his face.
He talks about mergers,
He talks about sales,
All with urgency,
It's all life and death.
Is there a real person in there?
Beneath the professional polish?
Is there someone who smiles for real?
Is there something genuine?

His girlie mag, his cell phone,
What does he do when he gets home?
When he leaves his study,
When he puts down his Wall Street.

Does he have a Slip-n-Slide?
Does he know how to dance?
Does he make prank calls?
Does he always wear pants?

Gives us a sign of life, dear sir,
A nod, a twitch, a guesture.
How rounded is your life, dear sir,
Does it extend beyond your work?