Of life and beauty

He talks to boss and he looks at me. He talks to boss and he looks at me. He talks to boss and he again looks at me. He is the prosecution side, we're the defence. He is old, grey haired. Not all grey but plenty.

You're old, very old. Thirty five years older or so. I wonder what you're thinking. Your days gone by or what.

His eyes are crystal clear. Like Ice. He wears beige sandals. His heels are cracked, surprisingly. Very cracked. He wears a silver watch. He wears his hair three fourth to the right and one fourth to the left. If you saw him you'd fear the wind'd ruffle his hair. You'd fear that a speck of dirt lie on his spotless white shirt. The whitest in the whole damn court. Nice trouseres he wears. He walks with his arms away from the body, not the macho man kind, but very funny. He is not that smart, not like boss wiseset. He is CBI though.

When boss leaves, I sit there staring at him as he speaks. I look at him writing poetry in my mind.

Nice. Very nice. Very very nice.