| recovering life. |
| empty boxes roll one by one down the swerving block of wheels that lead straight into your pocket. rampant hindrances yield not and passion is resealed and re-ushered back onto the floor so quickly, eyes won't even restock it. the feel of a smooth blade careening its way through, lovingly, kissing cardboard and crinkled dollar bills; the same ones we all clamor to have displayed on windowsill and register and table and shelf and door. admitted: there is no shortage of heart. be there thrills and kills and what have you been doing for the past hour and a half? simply running, racks and stacks, the plastic on my cart. and you can't help laugh when the powers that be come to check on the staff's progress. a shoe without a match; a throw without a catch. shiny and sharp and shoddy but not without your fair share of distress. it all just never ends. when should i come in? oh, it depends. they get along so well. she just pretends. i want to spend time with you. no, i work weekends. and even when new friends tell you to keep in touch, all you can do is run home to find a way to recover the life you hated so much. |
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