he sits there across from me, clean shaven, neatly groomed, pampered, given everything he ever wanted                                   

self-importance oozing from his broad shoulders that he received from many nights sweating on treadmills and taking showers with other men

his face is unappealing: sharp features, empty expression, pressed chin, indifference wrapped around his words, and he barely makes eye contact
He sees a nightmare in me, an uncle that refused to give him his way
his questions are weightless
his thoughts are worthless
his eyebrows are appallingly burdenless

"tell me about yourself," he says with roaming eyes, "what makes you stand apart from the other applicants?"

"Um...blah blah blah blah and....um....blah."

"sounds good, we will look over your application and give you a call."

He won't call me
he stands up and holds his hand out for me to shake
I reluctantly shake it
he smells defeat in my grip
I let him believe whatever he wants
I see his detestable mouth curl into a smirk
a flash of death rise in his eyes

I walk out of the lifeless building, look up at the crystal sky in appreciation

One more trap evaded...

Peter Nezafati has released three volumes of poetry based on his experiences locked in a pork bellies factory basement for three months, with nothing but a box of matches, a red handkerchief, a head and shoulders shampoo bottle, and a rabid pit bull. It's sales eclipsed any poet of his era in such renowned poetic communities as Albania, Guam, and Goober, Idaho. In this collection one will find peace of mind, a rash, and a decline of faith in humanity. Enjoy!