The Strain

I saw him at the hardware store,

struggling with the latch on the door.

His face was tight, a mask of strain,

refusing aid, again, again.

The way he held his shoulders square,

a heavy burden he must bear.

A clenched fist, white knuckles show,

as if to prove he wouldn't go

against the grain, the ancient code,

that dictates how a man is showed.

It costs something, this rigid pose,

the pressure that forever grows.

To stand alone, to never bend,

until the very bitter end.