Behind the Deak

A shadow fell across his leafy brow.
The sinister one. The heavy one.
His feet were big as his buckets
propped on his desk-
it was the mammoth dark wood desk
that created a chasm between him
and anyone who strolled in.

Casual was not his color.  Casual was too close.
It allowed for comfort and that tilted the scales
in the wrong direction.  Always he strives to be
that backhand shot across the net that comes to you
in such a way you have to lean hard and fast to return
the serve and only with dumb luck will the volley be back
in his court anytime soon.