The Angel of Agony

is timely. Arrives
for coffee, black
at 7:30—a shrill

bell ringing
his entrance.
He now sits    
opposite me

in a striking
pin-stripe
to commence
my daily torture.

What adept skill
he employs
scrolling
his newsfeed—

each wrist-twist
purposeful
each pause
squeezing my chest.

How easily
he occupies
his bench,
back straight

as a waterboard,
hair sharp
as a thumbscrew.
I pray

every nerve
be blind or numb,
but damn
if I can’t smell

his aftershave—
an enduring
whiff
of purgatory.

I tell myself
to look up,
be brave like
Jesus in the garden,

but my temples
melt, wet
my splayed collar
in a puddle

of sweat and oil
that, of course,
catches
with the flash

of his smile.