The signs said,
“Stop.”
A defunct traffic light
beating red —
Danger,
Pinocchio abandon:
that amateur drunk
with the crimson nose,
lost keys in hand.
My problem now:
White collar.
Uniform standard.
I feel the blues,
sweat scrubbed invisible —
because it’s not brand standard
to perspire.
“We love everyone.”
Silent grime.
Immaculate shoes.
Serving forty hours,
paying back dues.
There is no prize
in this cereal box.
And we all know:
we don’t even try
to fake the show.
No.
I am a decrepit puppet,
unfinished in craft,
neglected in intent —
a marionette,
suspended by strings
of a predator,
nested above me,
thriving on futility.
They animate me
when they are hungry.
The spider’s web jerks,
a feast of a fly
caught systematically.
And they call this movement
“Living.”
I envy the fly