The out and in, the swinging door,
The turnstile when he hoped for more,
Some clippings from the local news,
The wasted ink upon his shoes.
Trying to think his mind goes blank,
He has the sleepless night to thank,
Upstairs and down, the restless sleep,
The used teabag again to steep,
But nods off while at the table,
Afraid that he is unable.
Makes up his mind, talks to himself,
He puts the pencil on the shelf,
The unfinished attempt he tears,
Dragging his body up the stairs,
Paper scraps in the kitchen pail.
His self-respect grows thin and frail.
Tomorrow he must make the call,
Not that he didn’t try at all.
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