the walking of a broken man

A posh young man
(or so he sees himself)
walks my ally
with a stagger
to his stepping
miss and maybe
(with cruel tactics)
barage his grace
and sit on his
sagging shoulders.
Hugging at his
leather briefcase
his dignity
will not bow.
But you can see
in his dark eyes
(that cast about
my dark ally)
and in his step
(relieved of danse)
and in the sound
of tread upon
puddles echoing
he loved something
though shame will not
permit him to
admit what he
has lost.
But the walking
of a broken
man will never
be caught lying.