Satisfaction guaranteed

Marvel at the cost of such pedantry,

succumb to the vagaries of baubledom, hoofery, and chicane glaminosity.

The suit fits well, the shoes reveal the glib and jabber of your craft.

In your pocket you finger loose change,

rubbed together like shuffle and jump bumper cars.

See the shine he says.

Looks good on you, he says.

One last gander, he says, take it for a spin.

You check out the merchandise while he checks out yours

and, together, you strike the deal to deal the strike.

Inside it smells like an Alberta forest with a hint of cheap cologne.

Something doesn’t feel right, he switches feet too often,

hasn’t looked you in the eye, yet,

and talks faster than you can type.

But something about this impish clown ghetto pulls one hand to sign,

the other to wipe the sweat from your anxious brow.

This parade of top-down, convertible politics

sits in your gut like so much bad stew.

Need and want swap places and you sigh…

But in the end, your satisfaction is guaranteed.

After all, the payments won’t kill you,

but the possessions might.

 

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