an empty echoing lull
the electric snake curls through this still air
the dismal wrecks, tied to their metal lifelines
drift through the lanes, shopping for fulfillment

her tobacco-flavoured fingers flutter,
lightly dance over the yellowed keys
forty eleven, bananas are cheap
forty forty-eight, limes were her first love

in a mess of grey, haggled streaks on plate glass
she is the sparkling dime in the drawer
needing to be saved,
held and treasured

instead her flowers are ground and sold
her talents mashed and processed
she flounders in the ocean of khaki

she floats past the artificial happiness
and scrutinizes her ticket to paradise
it looks innocent enough
but doesn't everything have a potiential for greatness ?

the cold metal is comfort in its purest form
it melds with her skin like a melody
and softly sings her to sleep

across the vast metal canyon
rings the digital voice of his majesty;
"suicide on aisle 6"