Gripping the lectern, rocking it, searching <br />the faces for the souls, for signs of heartfelt <br />mindfulness at work, I thought, as I recited <br />words I wrote in tears: instead of tears, <br />if I had understood my father's business, <br />I could be selling men's clothes. I could be <br />kneeling, complimenting someone at the bay <br />of mirrors, mumblingly, with pinpoints pressed <br />between my lips. That was the life I held <br />in scorn while young, because I thought to live <br />without distraction, using words. Yet, looking <br />now into the room of strangers' eyes, I wanted <br />them to feel what I said touch, as palpably <br />as when a men in double worsted felt <br />the cuff drop to his wrist. There was a rush <br />in the applause of gratitude and mercy: <br />they could go. A teenager, embarrassed <br />for himself and me, lefthandedly <br />squeezed my fingers, and said thanks. <br /> <br /> <br />Anonymous submission.<br /><br />Brooks Haxton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/salesmanship-with-half-a-dram-of-tears/
