Fine suit and Rolex
Shoes to shiny point
Voice bounds across the room
Before his body
Convention says you take the flesh
Protruding from his sleeve
Offered over table and
Reflecting in the sheen
But here is a man whose hands
Are not there
You squeeze but there is
No Return
And you wonder
How long
And how hard
You persist
Before he dissolves from the wrist
Leaving a neatly folded
Pile of fine suit
And that Rolex you found
In the street
On your way to work
#NaPoWriMo 2013 poem number 16
© Brendan Bonsack
April 2013