He scurried to his photo-less, cubicle, just like any other morning.
When I look back now, it's sad that I recall his well-pressed tweed jacket and thick rimmed glasses
yet, I don't recall his name.
And the brown paper bag; always those ham and cheese sandwiches. He loved those sandwiches.
I asked him to a short, Starbucks half-lunch once. He politely declined in 4 curt words: "No, but thank you."
It's a pity he never came. His sharp, thin lips never had a bad word to say. Never really had much to say.
I remember asking him about family. He spoke very fondly of his mother, a hint of mist in his eye as he explained of her passing a few years ago.
A rare peak behind the curtain, for he always wore that hollow smile so well.
That next morning, no scurrying, no paper bag, just a post-it note on his monitor:
"I am very sorry but I will not be in work today. I hung myself last evening. My sincere apologies for any inconvenience."
By DB (06/20/2011)
For Heslopian's call for poems about loneliness