Читать книгу Kindest Regards - Ted Kooser - Страница 13

The Salesman

Today he’s wearing his vinyl shoes,

shiny and white as little Karmann Ghias

fresh from the body shop, and as he moves

in his door-to-door glide, these shoes fly round

each other, honking the horns of their soles.

His hose are black and ribbed and tight, as thin

as an old umbrella or the wing of a bat.

(They leave a pucker when he pulls them off.)

He’s got on his double-knit leisure suit

in a pond-scum green, with a tight white belt

that matches his shoes but suffers with cracks

at the golden buckle. His shirt is brown

and green, like a pile of leaves, and it opens

onto the neck at a Brillo pad

of graying hair which tosses a cross and chain

as he walks. The collar is splayed out over

the jacket’s lapels yet leaves a lodge pin

taking the sun like a silver spike.

He’s swinging a briefcase full of the things

of this world, a leather cornucopia

heavy with promise. Through those dark lenses,

each of the doors along your sunny street

looks slightly ajar, and in your quiet house

the dog of your willpower cowers and growls,

then crawls in under the basement steps,

making the jingle of coin with its tags.