the man with the deepest pockets keeps his head high. he laughs sincerely, it seems, when we make jokes, and we appreciate that about him. we never question his influence; we feel ourselves reverent of his profundity, admiring his universal acumen. depending on the night, and clarity of the heavens, the humidity in the air, he will save us a seat at his table, warming it with his hand as we finish our shift and punch out. we stink of kitchens and of bathrooms, film of grease labor on our skin. he puts his hand on our thigh and calls us sweet things like cupcake, or darling, and we rest our head on his shoulder. he feeds us delights from the corners of the world we can only dream of, tells us of souls in those places much like our own, tells of bodies in similar toil, makes the feel the universality of us, the infinite xeroxes of we spread across the globe. through the eyes of our twins, we see every terrain on the planet’s dulling face rolling with dust and ants, with one sweating brow and aching back mirrored into them all. as he sweetly curls our hair around our ear and, knowing well the answer, asks us where we are staying tonight, we feel the ubiquitousness of we, and also the singularity of he. we are lucky the sky is clear, and the humidity low, for it is on a night such as this that we have the chance to rest on the shoulder of him, to sleep in his pockets.
