The Accountant Cries

On his solitary walks
he feels the air in front of him
searches for her soft arm
the smell of soap and roast lamb.

Her hands folded in her lap
even when she watched
the 6 o'clock news her hands
were stored competency
reserved for mysterious tasks.

At school he'd imagine her hands
(he loved the fine wrinkles
in the pads of her index finger)
he'd imagine them at school
as he learned to rule
exercise books in neat columns.

Pushing his tie more firmly
against the knot of his throat
he flicks imaginary lint from
the knee of his immaculately
crossed trouser leg and

He feels the air in front of him
the long breath of years
too frightened to leave his body.