I stared at the hollow plastic black handles,
disgusted.
my blood shot eyes burn within the cheap
yellow tape
used to keep the covers on so they
stay sticky.
red print, black letters, yellow tape
so ugly
I looked at their cold metal tan shelf with a
sticky stain
then up at the gas station attendant, a fat
greasy man
in an unwashed t-shirt stained with
armpit sweat
who stared at nothing, mouth agape
and useless.

I thought how little care went into the
lint roller,
one purpose with no need to be pretty
or perfect.
how little care his mother put into
raising him,
how little care he put into himself,
sickening.
disgusted I lifted my gun with ecstasy
and fired.
a smatter of red decorates the bland
station walls
that shines with rapture in the florescent,
dimly lit lights.
lint rollers only have one purpose, so
I leave them.