The Salesman

I work as a salesman.

I go from door to door,

Door to door, 

Door to door.

Knocking and knocking,

Knocking and knocking,

Knocking and knocking.

Some people answer. 

Most don't.


As I walk, and as I knock,

I learn something.

The people may answer the door,

But they aren't really there.

Their houses may be in front of me,

But no one is home.

“Donate to this!”

Or “Please buy that!”

Makes no discernible difference.


“No Solicitors”

Reads a sign on a home,

So I don't bother.

I don’t knock.

Instead, I walk past.

I walk circles around the square city block,

Tired of meaningless interactions.

So tired of the knocking 

And the walking.


The houses blur together,

As I walk in a finite infinite loop.

Dogs bark. 

TVs blare.

Children run past.

But even the differences become monotonous.

Now its children barking,

Dogs blaring,

And TVs running past,

And I don’t even notice.

I don't belong here.

People don't want me here.

What am I doing here?

That's when I pass,

A small trail.

I hardly see it.

It leads into the forest,

Where the bugs are chirping.

Their sound symphonically seeping from the dark,

Calling to me. 

Singing to me.

Not directed at anyone else,

Singing only to me, a simple salesman.

The bugs tell me,

“You don't have a home out there,

But you have one here.

You belong here.”


I look to my left,

Then quickly to my right,

And then slowly behind me.

No one else is near me.

The neighborhood is empty. 

If I were to go missing,

Inside this forest,

Or better yet,

If I were to make this forest my home, 

Would anyone ever know?

Would anyone even care?


I take a single step into the forest.

I stand on the precipice.

Man behind me, 

Bug in front. 


Lies behind me,

Opportunity in front of me.


My second step is less sure.

My thoughts become filled with the dense fog of the forest.

What am I doing?

Why would I follow this dark, twisted path? 

Why are the bugs calling to me?




I take a third step forward,

And I am awash with overwhelming fear.

Fear of the darkness dripping from the dense foliage.

Fear of the chirping,

That distorts itself into a cacophony of malice.

The forest does not accept me,

I think to myself,

I am done.


I turn my back,

and take,

One step towards man. 

And then a second.

On the third, and final step,

I take a peek behind me,

And the bugs, 

Are louder, 

Than ever.


My eardrums are beating,

Not to my own tune, 

But to the rhythm of the forest.

I can hear nothing else,

But the call of the bugs.

I realize,

This is my last chance.

This is my only chance.

With that in mind,

I turn and walk back,





I become enveloped in darkness,

but also in sound. 

A sound that illuminates.

A sound that tells me,

That I have a place here.

The further I walk,

The stronger it becomes. 

The stronger the feeling,

The more I belong.


I strike up a conversation with the forest, 

Here, walking and talking feels different.

It's refreshing.

No houses, no empty homes.

No signs that say “No Solicitors.”

Engrossed in my discussion,

I forget all that.

I forget myself.


As our conversation comes to a close,

I am done.

I feel complete.

The bugs have become me,

I have become them.

No longer am I a salesman.

No longer am I one of them. 

I am me.



I turn back,

And walk to the land of man, unaccompanied.

Ready to assume my role once more,

Ready to put on a character,

Ready to walk and knock,

Ready to play a salesman,

But not to be one.