His face looks like a child's
when he doesn't wear his glasses.
Walking calmly
smoothly
but somehow cautiously
between the rows of people
who feel they are his superior.
The one with small, blue-green eyes
With hints of yellow
and this I know
Because he stares into me
when he talks.
The one who never fiddles
with his shirt
Always tucked in flawlessly
to khakis.
Whose voice is always low
and in control
making words
in perfect meter
To let the morons think
They are his superior
and in doing so
accommodate their inferiority.
The one who gently takes
his fiance's hand
to help her by a stanchion.
Watching her while she walked.
Whose head is never turned
Whose heart is never pushed to miss a beat.
Who
if you watch him carefully
wrings his hands
nervously
when he's alone.
