wax shoe strings

his pants were short

his socks were high.

it was a haggered well worn

brown leather briefcase

that he crammed with the

stuff of his life.

his shirt was pressed

his sleeves were short

and his tie was high

with a fat windsor knot.

he always wore wingtips,

for him lace up shoes

meant business.

his back was haunched

over from a life of an

inexhaustable grind.

his had become a testament

to tivo and brown bag

lunches.

people hold doors open 

for you when your sloping

posture demands it.

he often pondered the respect

those passing hallway apparitions

that materialize into friends over

the years and crown him with that

most abhorrent of all awards,

the blue ribbon of old age.