sales vultures

never a fan
of salesman, the checkered
coats
the onion and garlic
breath,
the vigorous sweaty
handshake,
and
nervous tics,
looking me too deeply
into my eyes,
I endure as I shop
for things.
can we make a deal today?
they say.
what's your name,
your address, your blood type,
your social
security number,
your email, your mother's
maiden name?
their ties are stained with
mayo,
or ketchup from a fast
lunch
across the street at
Moe's.
there is fried rice
on a button
from yesterday at hunan west.
their shoes are dull
and scuffed
the bottoms racing toward
broken soles.
they hover, they hand,
they crowd
the cavernous room like
vultures on the side
of the road.
but I need stuff, so I
endure.