with a smile like a crease in the shirt of his facenand a coat-hanger drape to his jacketnwatch him tense every tendon as you sets the pacenin the race for the next income bracketnnnow there’s room at the top but there’s more in the ranksnand he’s matching your stride but he’s strainingnand he’s slave to the bite of the spur in his flanksnbut you’re not gonna hear him complainingnnit’s second nature to the native sonnthe office joke he can barely deciphernat the expense of his naked ambitionnna bit of a striver/he tries so hardngreedy conniver you can’t disregardnevery surface a scorecardnevery edge is a measuring rodnwhen you hold it up against himnnhe’d be up in the office while you’re still in bednbut you don’t want to give him the pleasurenas he’s sizing you up for the grave in his headnwith a flick of his mental tape-measurennsliding levers through the sand and gritnmarbles drop, he’s the only survivornthe last to leave and the first to admit itnna bit of a striver, he tries so hardnsputtering diver in his final yardnevery surface a scoreboardnevery edge is a measuring rodnpull a plank from the floorboardnevery nail brings him closer to Godnas you hold it up against, hold it up against him