Salesman
Janet Kuypers
1991 prose, edited 9/16/16 and 9/22/16 for 10/01/16 show
The doorbell rang.
“Who could be stopping by at this hour?”,
I thought, but I put my work down
and walked to the door.
A man in a plaid suit stood in the entryway
with a worn book in his hand.
His business suit seemed like a costume
that looked comical
for this sad clown...
I almost exptected to see
a twirling bow tie
or water to squirt out
of the fake flower in his pocket,
but he flashed me a tired, business-like smile.
It almost seemed genuine.
As he rambled on and on about...
Well, I don’t really know what he said.
I don’t even know what he wanted.
“What is he selling?”, I thought,
and my head became dizzy
with his confusing words.
Try to be nice to the strange man;
he knocked on your door,
and you felt obliged to greet him.
It all seemed like nonsense...
You listened to his words;
you tried to make sense
of his nouns and his verbs,
and when you heard fractions
he mentioned a call to action —
I didn’t like what I heard.
But I tried to listen.
I wanted to listen.
But after a while
I had to hold on to the door frame:
I had to keep myself steady
while this man’s thoughts
tried to knock me down.
I finally stopped him.
“What are you trying to sell me?
What are you trying to do?”, I asked.
The man looked at me and said,
“I’m trying to sell you an ideology.
I am trying to poison your mind.”
I slammed the door in his face.
Alone, I let go of the door frame.
I fell down.
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