The man was seated behind a desk, with his hands cradled athwart his belly

His legs extending, pushing on the wall, tilting but not rocking, testing limits

His chin pressing downward, like a clamp, tugging on the cotton of his shirt

The man was thinking about cigars and how he’d not had one in some years

He forms a grip, pressing his thumb with but two fingers, index and middle

Mimicking the old motions, rekindling sleeping habits, puffing on bits of air

The man was frozen in his thoughts, the blur of nostalgia, resins of his past

He unlocks both knees, dumping him forward, making six legs on the floor

He turns his head and gazes into nothing, falling inside the linoleum abyss

The man was struggling to merely sit, feeling so weak, reasoning on so little

His feelings worsen the more he feels them, snapping him free of the abyss

He opens a drawer inside the desk, pulls out a pencil and bites a few chews.