Jodi A. Corbett

Stamp

The walls hum with
water in the copper,
as the rapid click
of razor hits the sink,
scraping away
hard stubbles of night
while radio hum
keeps him company.

Beyond the ceiling,
I can see him dressing
in the pressed suit,
tightening the Garcia tie
with its drug-induced
patterns turned simulacra
by Chinese hands
as his own hand smooths
the silk across his furious,
ginger-boy heart.

Out the door he goes,
gray as the copper pipes green,
a stamp of company man
for a new company.