Sonnet: Day of a Salesman
He spoke of where he had to go, greater
doings, how and when; what he was for now
he did not seem to know, knitting his brow
often over it but none the wiser.
He would face the east and feel the matter
dawning (as clear as smog and clouds allow);
he’d sigh for a post on a bireme’s prow
piloting for Byzantium, then mutter
greetings to the inevitable day
and coffee up, prepared to press his quest
for sidewalks greener than a Queen Claude plum.
By noon he’d start to knock it all, and flay
the bitch that bore us; by night call it jest,
benched and listening to the overheads hum.
(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)