A Loan Man stands

Alone

Awkwardly in a conference room

Through corrugated glass slats

Cracks reveal stacks

of printer paper, standard size

Promising- so bright and white

And towering

Taller than he

Behind which he hides.

Sighs.

Closes his eyes.

Hand to forehead

Elbow to stack

A prayer recited: "Is it five o'clock yet?"

"Somewhere", he thinks

And there's comfort in that

But frosted glass can't camouflage

His broken silhouette

 

All content property of Chandra Mossine

*This poem was included in the Columbia Art League juried publication 'Interpretations', 2014