I, Product

I can’t be the market queen

Shiny teeth, pressed suit so clean

Standing stiff behind a glass desk

Shaking hands with all the rest

I can’t raise the bubbling glass

Tilt of head for a pictures flash

Wading deep in strangers smug

Purpose filled with but a wanted hug

I can’t sell my song tonight

Prose unpaid in the fading light

Cast these pages on a dusty shelf

Within them I couldn’t find myself

www.suburbanfiction.com