Head Man
They scrubbed the heavy, white tiles on the counters and
the acre of white, linoleum floor.
They wiped down the long, steel tables with strong-smelling chemicals, and polished them
until the hard, overhead lights glared back at them.
They made ready for the boys and girls that would soon lie still and stiff in the room.
Far away, the head man took his hands from his hips,
hooked his thumbs in his belt
and pulled his pants up tight.
Moving his head slowly,
looking over his shoulder at his face in the antique mirror – which reflected the faces
of other presidents - he chuckled, adjusted a few strands of hair on his forehead,
the neat knot of his bright red tie, and reflected on the brief call
that sent the effusive , gray bombers off to do their duty.
Copyright © Thomas Pitre | Year Posted 2008
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