I strolled to find my destined part,
A life well-ordered from the start.
Yet on the shelf, a vacant grin,
A note that sighed, “Not coming in.”
I sought the clerk, “Is there delay?”
He shrugged and laughed, “Not here today.”
“But check tomorrow,” he softly said,
“Your life’s on backorder, not dead.”
And so I chuckled, turned to roam,
Disowned the thought of taking home
A box of dreams tied neatly tight
Instead, I’ll wing it through the night.