gone strangely limp and strengthless. How he bends
over his desk, eyes focused on the screen
before him, chair sunk lower every hour,
till inches separate him from the floor.
It seems like every day there's something else
to make his eyelids droop, his body sag.
At night he tells the wife and kids he's fine,
pulls himself straight, goes out to drink with friends
or reads. The bathroom mirror shows him clean
and trim. No one would ever guess the sour
black bile he swallows, hid behind this door.
Down in his gut the venom churns and swells.
He wrings himself out like a dirty rag.
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