(black, not blue),
Pockets still sewn shut from the factory
You’ve taken to wearing it without a tie,
Just a pocket square matching your shirt
And a practiced, wide smile.
It’s become something of a rite,
You, dressed in your uniform
Shouting or laughing or listening
To murmurs and echoes of murmurs,
The hollow buzz of conversations
As the wet of condensation
Drips from your cocktail
Onto your jeans or your slacks
Or your shirttail.
Paying no heed to the shock
Of cold, moist discomfort,
You don your plastic, wide smile
To exorcise restraint and recluse.