“What’s in your briefcase?” his colleagues all ask,
To a grim head-shake and stretch for a flask.
The object forever retained at his side
Perhaps it had belonged to someone who died?
For comfort, or function? A gift for him bought?
His manner they see, comprehend they do not.
Through malice, through spite, through vices and flames
He’s learned how the world treats those ones that it names
Taking the victims, the left, the oppressed,
As shiny gold pieces up in a crow’s nest.

A figure of grandeur, a speaker for good,
Working for the causes he believed that he should,
Never losing the lesson his bygones had taught,
Consulting his briefcase to guide each new thought
As they look on him now, some love and some hate
They realize they don’t know what gives him his trait,
Profound! Sincere! Fervent! Keen!
Such enterprise must let its motive be seen,
But search though they try, his secret outlasts-
Inside his briefcase, he carries his past.

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