Kindest Regards. Ted Kooser

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      The Salesman

      Today he’s wearing his vinyl shoes,

      shiny and white as little Karmann Ghias

      fresh from the body shop, and as he moves

      in his door-to-door glide, these shoes fly round

      each other, honking the horns of their soles.

      His hose are black and ribbed and tight, as thin

      as an old umbrella or the wing of a bat.

      (They leave a pucker when he pulls them off.)

      He’s got on his double-knit leisure suit

      in a pond-scum green, with a tight white belt

      that matches his shoes but suffers with cracks

      at the golden buckle. His shirt is brown

      and green, like a pile of leaves, and it opens

      onto the neck at a Brillo pad

      of graying hair which tosses a cross and chain

      as he walks. The collar is splayed out over

      the jacket’s lapels yet leaves a lodge pin

      taking the sun like a silver spike.

      He’s swinging a briefcase full of the things

      of this world, a leather cornucopia

      heavy with promise. Through those dark lenses,

      each of the doors along your sunny street

      looks slightly ajar, and in your quiet house

      the dog of your willpower cowers and growls,

      then crawls in under the basement steps,

      making the jingle of coin with its tags.