Shadow of a Man

I saw a man
standing on the corner
of Broad
and Seventh.
We shared the air,
the sun,
and the silence,
wrapped them in a moment,
and anticipated their futile death.

A white pressed shirt
leaked a grey silk tie,
and both were caressed by a charcoal blazer.
His shoulders
held an obvious load,
but a freshly polished dress shoe
continued to tap the grey pavement;
as if adamant impatience
would open the crosswalk
that was tenderly murdering
his precious agenda.

This man had no expression,
because he wore no face.
In its absence
laid a blackness,
as hollow as the north wind
and vacent as a west bound howl.

I swear I tried.
I cursed my will
and sincerely tried not to stare,
but my heart
turned my head
while my eyes
turned to tears.
Standing inches from the black
that should have,
and perhaps once did
hold a face,
I wept at him.

“why?”
My voice softly broken
over firm feet.
He did not answer.
He could not answer.
He would never answer.
Through the hourglass
he has sold his face:
to his Parents,
to his Teachers,
to his Pastor,
to his Boss,
to his Family,
to this Man,
and that Man,
and some Brunette with a thin waste and large breasts.

He sold his face--
but I thank God
that I fought
for mine.