Portrait (revisited)

Feedback Request: Is this more effective as a poem?

He stands there.
Naked.
Raw emotions
racing behind his eyes.
Anger. Fear. Relief. Sadness. Uncertainty.
Rolling past
again
and again.
Like the spinning wheel on the Price is Right,
where it will finally land, nobody knows.

This is not a game to him, though.
You can tell by
the tightness in his jaw,
the slightly bent head,
the hands that flex
open
and close.

Somehow he looks
disheveled.
Like he's been up all night
without sleep,
even though only a couple of hours have
passed.

His shirt is un-tucked,
he's got stubble along his face,
and his skin looks dull.
He seems
shorter
than his usual six feet and as though
he's lost
weight.
Is it the stoop of his shoulders that makes me think this?

He looks so
alone.
I want to be
there
for him.

I hope he lets me into his
abyss
so that I can help him
find his way
out.

He
drops
the papers
in his lap
and
shakes
his head.
Mutters to himself.
Picks up the papers and reads through them again.

His past
and
his future
are
in his hands.