If only I could trap him behind a door and make him scream confessions

of all the stuffy, archaic untruths he holds so high.

When his stiff grey suit bellowed in the wind on the airport grounds,

I finally knew he must know he is out of place.

His hair tickled a deadened cheek that gives out words

like they are candy bars, sickly sweet depressants.

But I've never heard his wavering rhetoric stream into the lies that make up his

built up shadows of his public side, ignoring muffled public cries.

I could see under his ironed lapels the suffering he hides.

I'm not sure what color it was.



Now it seems so apparent that he is clothed in heavy transparencies,

his heart is pushing the humorless sides of the machinery that covers his exterior.