the salesman

the salesman
calls.
he wants to make a deal
on your house.
you tell him no, please.
go away. I don't want to sell.
the next day he shows up
at your door,
he's dripping
in his own oil, slick
as a seal
off the coast of Alaska.
he has a pen
in hand.
a contract.
he's already pounded a sign
into your front
yard.
you try to close
the door, but he sticks
his alligator shoe
inside.
sign here, he says, smiling,
holding out a contract.
he hands you a business card
with his photo.
it looks nothing like him.
he tells you
that you look marvelous,
asking if
you've lost weight, or
if you've been working out.
how much can you lift into
the air he says,
over your head. I bet
it's a lot.
he stares at your arms.
finally you let him in.
you make
him coffee, he tells you again
how wonderful
you look as you read over
the small print of the contract
with a magnifying glass.