Conversation 3

he sits at the service
counter
blue cotton dress shirt
slightly rumpled sleeves
rolled over wrists

perhaps we even see
a pencil
like a skewed signpost
pointing the way from right ear
to temple

his voice
is like the wooden
edge of the countertop
worn and somehow
pleasantly grimed

it won't matter what
you ask
intractable
each sentence in answer
ends surprisingly rote
expected yet still unforeseen
like a deus
ex machine