Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Sleeping Salesman

I don’t like salesmen.
I don’t like how they slither
their way towards me
like creeping poison ivy.
They wrap themselves around me
and try to pull me towards their table
where they hope they will try get me to hand over my check,
or credit card,
or even,
cash.
They feign such concern over my well being,
such loyalty to my every need.
But the truth is,
they don’t really care about me.
They only want what’s in my pocket.
The minute I leave,
they will find a new mark.
Mattress salesmen are the worst offenders.
They’re like whores waiting for a customer
in a florescent showroom.
They pace back and forth in their empty stores,
full of pillowtops,
praying some unsuspecting idiot will come in.
Today, I was that idiot.
When I first walked in,
the salesman was all ears.
Then I told him I wouldn’t be buying the bed from him,
but from a store
in Denver.
You should have seen him.
He pulled away quicker from me than a hand on a hot stove.
His whole posture changed,
like a deflated balloon.
And that twinkle in his eye,
the one that met me when I walked in the door,
was now just mucous.
I felt it happen.
I saw the shift.
Gone was the façade.
Gone the dear uncle I had come to know and trust.
He no longer cared
about my back,
or my neck,
or who would be sleeping on what bed
with whom.
He just wanted me gone.
After all,
I was of no use to him now.
I was just a body.
A body
taking up his time and his space,
(even though there was no one else in the store).
He had things to do.
New customers to attract.
He tossed me out of there like a dust bunny
he found under the bed.
I wonder how he sleeps at night.
And what he sleeps on.