The Good Boy

He keeps his head bowed
not low enough that you can step on his neck and not high enough so that you can see the specks of sun that get caught in his brow.
That you can see in the center of his eyes is a pool of ghosts swirling colors into a murky brown-blue,
but just so,
so he can carry his gait along with his briefcase to fit inside the door, so he doesn't hit his head on the upper ledge of the frame from standing too tall, back too straight, his gaze too narrowed ahead to fit inside this room where everything on him will shrink once he sits into his chair, surrounded by the box almost the size of the one he carries, and the one he sits in coming to work, and the one he crams into on his way home, and the one he eats and sleeps in. The boxes that are rooms that come with doors he chooses to fit in to, lowering himself just enough and sustaining himself just enough to fit in.