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)