The copy’s good enough to eat, a private
Swoon behind no-look glass.
We’re acting out a commercial in which
Refills line up like iron, the detox
Boundary between value and use.
The colored glass nob. The pulverized
Rock-face journal. The shampoo
Bent back over its own lather.
If those salespeople are in the way
When the fizzy bath bomb goes off, we can’t
Be held accountable for our own desires,
Blooming in the dark-stained pan.
The label works in its absence
Of generosity, ultra-smooth-clean
Donuts and muffins filling the empty space.
What it doesn’t give you is a walk to somewhere
That’s all afternoon long, the pavement flushed
From embarrassment or exertion.
Better to be left alone. I wanted
To get on the wrong train, carefully
Picking past the sad-dog eyes
Lined up along the platform like
So many shoes emptied of their wares.