Poem: Toil

Staring at the back bumper of a finely assembled Japanese sedan,

Rolling for miles (and many minutes) in the space that he will occupy

Seconds later, when his finely assembled German sedan —

The one with the special exhaust package and special wheels,

All meant to connote “Special,” although one inherently mistrusts

The specialness

Of anything

That can be purchased with a credit card

At Pep Boys —

Will roll where he points it.

Humming to a tune he vaguely recognizes on the radio, which

Today —

And is it the first time? —

Seems to be playing more music and fewer advertisements

For products

That will make him

And the rest of the roving herd, his brethren,

Altogether better and,

The implication goes,

Happier with the general state of things.

If only, he muses, there were something he could purchase with a credit card,

Something even more special than his tires,

A magic amulet well within his means (considerable at this point, thank you)

That could make everything disappear,

Including him.