He always greets the driver first,
then taps away on the old, dusty computer.
His eyes sadden
when drivers don't look at him
as he offers "have a nice day."
His eyes dart around in-between commuters
not to the beat of the music
but at every third tap of his foot.

He adjusts with his yellow-beige uniform.
He keeps his hands tight as a noose.
He's the one who cleans the computer.
It's left to him to wipe the sheet of dust.

When his shift is finally done with him,
he walks out to his car.
Each step less concerning than the last.
Each breathe fuller than the last.
He swings the door open
tosses his bag to the back seat
and punches the radio on.

While the wheels take him home,
the stitches on the steering wheel
massage his the tips of his fingers.
The radio soothes him;
its nice to hear a voice
other than his own.

The driveway finally welcomes him,
the front porch light showing him.
?Car door says "after you" with its creak.
He walks the sidewalk.
Reaches for the door.
She opens it first.