Impressions. Making impressions. Trading in impressions. The ones I make, The ones they try to see behind the mask. The ones they show, Obscuring what I need to see, Obscured by what I want to see. Somewhere, somehow, it’s useful, Something they and I can use. Between my tailored suit And their so-carefully phrased questions, Between the dropping of a pencil And the pregnant or aborted pause, A blink, a glance, caught breath, nervous laugh A scrap of something slips out, between the walls, Between the social and the so-called politesse. It hangs a minute in the stillness. While we reach, they and I, and grab That slippery something On which my future rests. Do we dare to call it truth?