Checking Out
Words from perforated ceiling tiles squawk
as megaphone filters blare
in crackled sequence
around missing stations
and call letters that aren’t acronyms
I hear these words, but shake my head
I know they are for me,
sent by well wishing advisors
wearing t-shirts imprinted
“I’m with stupid”
(and the arrows point at me)
Still I don’t heed the warnings…
I can’t, for dreams require reaching,
top shelf visions waving with
hope filled coupons
offering no discount for the heart
“Don’t want what you can not have,” they shout
As I continue to climb the frozen escalator,
cleaning my shoes on the bristles,
then checking my appearance in the sunglass
refection of a mannequin missing one arm
(and I feel happy for this plastic person)
For it has no idea how it feels
To be out of style, yesterday’s sleeves
worn of worried first impressions,
heart beat delusions and needs
at the end of the line…to check out
and yet, until the time comes for me to “check out”
I will reach for that dream, regardless of
invisible sales clerks on their eternal break,
because I will reach that register and I will ask that question
to which she just might say yes
(and then who will be wearing the t-shirt)
Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2016
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