Tied

Somewhere in the pressed
Shirt, dress-shoed and neck-tied
to many clocks,
is a poet.

His reflection
Holds it's breath
Under the office chamomile.
His eyes coffee-mugged
Of all expression,
When finally he,
Sees himself on
The bottom of an empty cup.

Somewhere between the vice
Of desk and chair he survives,
Testing his pens on memos,
Ready
To take his clothes
Off.