A Flit
Stuffy hours in unwindowed cubicles cobwebbed his brain with traces of yellow smoke and loose paperclips. 
Sunday afternoons precisely at four his tightening chest and dry throat summoned the horrid office outlook.
Flying his kid’s kite, feet pounding, arms flailing, he hoped to ignore his indenturing watch.
He knew it said four and hit it behind his back. In a gust of decision he unfastened 
its band, made another kite-tail from his maroon church tie, then let the rest of his clothes fall.
Freed, he gave a leap of joy. Kite, Edward trailing, were seen by un-napping neighbors; 
but no one called the police, so his end was never really known.