Salesman’s Blues (Misanthropy)

He says, “I think
of individual happiness
as an overpriced commodity.”

Runs a finger around the soft edge
of the tumbler.

Two rocks, single malt, half gone.
Another glass empty on the bar.
His silk tie
has a stain on it,
looks like an old one,
darkened from fingers worrying
the edges.

He says, “If I still had the money
for every tie
I’ve had to buy in a rush
from a hotel gift shop
before a meeting where I had to look my best
or risk losing the account,
I’d be richer than a goddamn pimp
at a convention.”

He says, “Come to think of it,
I am a goddamn pimp at a convention.
We’re all pimps here. Selling whores
we keep back at the office, all lined up
waiting to service people like you.

People like me live off of people like you,
and no thanks to you.”

He strips off the tie faster than
a superhero changing for battle.

Downs the last of the drink, slams
the glass down, gets up to go back to his room —

no one’s heard what he said back there in the corner,
far away from the people laughing at the TV,
the flirtations, the deals wisping in the air:
smoke foretelling fire.