The Man In The Pinstripe Pants

In his tower of glass and steel, the man in the pinstripe pants wrings his hands.

Sidewalk slabs fan out into a chessboard.
There are no knights, bishops, queens, rooks;
Only pawns, in their inexorable idiot’s dance in the dark.
One step forward, never back, never around.
Black and white meet in the middle and stalemate.

The boulevard bard sings the song of the streets,
Of concrete and crooked streetlights
And the blood that runs down to the gutter.

The packed lines on the sidewalks smell like tuna fish
Churning nonstop into a lockstep march of suits and ties.
A pinstripe banner to unite us all,
Bind us at the ankles
And keep us from running.

The televisions in the storefront reach out to shake you,
Snatch your pocket change
And boot you to the curb with a few missing teeth.

There are no humans in the resource department,
But there’s a camera in everything.
Work hard and earn your vacation time,
But God help you if you think to use it.
Suck a pipe or stick a needle and get ten years,
Or burn five bucks a pack a day and lose thirty.
Choose the right faith and you may be reborn,
Meanwhile heathen vampires never die.

Handshakes and smiles are ubiquitous and cheap.
I don’t know who you are or care
But my job depends on my saying “Have a nice day” when I take your money.
Have a nice day means “Get the hell out,”
Said with a smile
And sometimes a handshake.

In his tower of glass and steel, the man in the pinstripe pants steps down.
The king is laid sideways across the board.
The boulevard bard sings of fresh cracks in concrete
And the blood that runs down to the gutter.

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