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Out of Town
I pull into the retail outlet. My wife’s birthday tomorrow
and I haven’t got her anything.
They all look the same: the stores, the cars, the people.
Same clothes, same vacant eyes; dead black holes, lifeless but for the embers
of greed. They want things. I think I’m supposed to want them too.
They sense my lack of belonging. Manicured hands grab me,
carry me into a department store. My clothes are replaced with designer
garments, a needle jabbed into my neck, freezing my muscles.
I’m lifted to the window and positioned with the other
mannequins.
You’ll probably see me.
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