by: William A. Marshall

at the age of five we are sent off
into unknown structures with flinty rooms
with kids with bad breath who smell
like their dog
and like to clown and chuck things.
we eventually lose our patent uniqueness,
within the system, its rules, and policies
that are designed to govern
and strip us plain.
the system itself could care less,
“don’t think just memorize the information kid.”
our uniqueness wilts
with each passing packet of school pictures,
clothing and status become essential
for neophytes  
the offices stink
like after shave and cheap perfume in first period
each one gets a taste of honey
then the knife.
they look at their job like some kind of victory,
and their marriage
and their kids,
their lousy vinyl sided house
with the manicured lawn
like a victory to their family,
and to the world.
no one cares,
not the homeless guy in the street
not the neighbors with their friendly act,
or the precinct chairwoman asking you
if you voted as she reads your name
from her covert list,
all the victories lose their sweetness
and eventually you are stealing a few grapes
like a **** starving addict
at the supermarket
with your sore knee and shaded goggles
the victories are no longer important
and you limp to your vehicle
pushing your rusty cart,
full of soup and ***** by yourself
not remembering where you parked
the same way you came into this joint,
helpless and irritable as hell
needing something
or someone
to help you find
your identity that was taken
long ago by society,
it’s the order of things.