the window salesman

the salesman arrives
in his
little red
car with a magnetic sign
on the side.
he's half it's size
I see as he
squeezes out
with his notepad,
his briefcase,
his computer.
I watch him lumber
towards my house.
he's come to sell windows.
the old ones
are 52 years old.
I was thirteen when
they built this house.
one window on the upper
floor has a bullet
hole in it.
the rest move
with muscle.
no screens. the bugs
easily find their way
in.
out goes the heat,
the air conditioning.
I can plainly hear
conversations on the sidewalk,
and they
in turn have heard mine.
the stories they must
have.
the salesman gives me the history
of windows.
the story of caulk.
the tale
of double paned glass
and new insulation.
space age, I smile, and ask.
I learn that he was in the marines,
that he has a wife
and kids. he's good at this
game.
after a few hours,
i'm still polite but weary, having
seen the demonstration
of heat against
the glass.
a string of rubbery caulk appears
that he stretches back
and forth.
what's the bottom line,
the price? I finally blurt out.
we negotiate. he's hard to read
with his virus mask.
his eyes seem too small for his
face.
we strike a deal. papers
are signed.
I give him a check for
half.
we'll be in touch he says,
packing up
his gear.
thank you, I tell him.
no the pleasure has been all
mine, he says, pulling his mask
down,
showing me a winning smile.
I wonder if I should have
held out lower
as I watch him drive away.