Off Market

“Sell yourself;” that's what we're told.
In this grotesque society, we're mines
Or farms producing labor to be trucked
To markets in which cartels tell us
We're worth nothing, pay us nothing,
Charge us dearly for the things our labor
Makes. You're platinum blonde. You
Buff your nails in Daddy's high-rise
Living room, assuming that I'll do as
All the others have and make a pitch.
“My dear, I have an MBA.” “My sweet,
My start-up rockets upward, soon to be
A unicorn,” but I'm ill-suited to do that.
I live above the public market, share
A bath with an old drunk, and spend
Spare hours, I have many, scribbling
Poems no one reads attacking what you
Represent. I have no urge to sell myself.
I'm satisfied with who I am, and, next
Time, if you'd like to see me, stop by.
Brave the urine smell, and understand
That some of us are not commodities.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 36 times
Written on 2021-06-14 at 12:25

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