Another slammed door snarls at him,
And he hurriedly embraces inevitable defeat
As now it is what seems to be second nature.
He hardens his face, unsmiling, grim,
and lugs his bag in the unrelenting heat
Seeking the next wound in his stature.
He finds a bench he wishes to rest upon,
loosens his tie and peers inside his bag
to evaluate the worth of its contents.
As he ponders his predicament, the thought spawns:
"Is it the appropriate method I lack,
or is it a delusion that my fate laments?"
Perhaps it is only a matter of choice
that will determine the man's future
As to whether he gives up at this umpteenth sore
to pursue another calling of his inner voice,
Or resumes his attempts to break this stupor
and be found selling himself at the next door.