Quaint as a fax machine chugging
through lunch, the door chimes.
The fluorescents shiver and twitch,
like a button on a Nintendo controller
that’s depressed and, sticky, just stays there.
In strip plazas everywhere
a procession of factories throws up.
A can of Dr. Pepper reproduces itself
deep in the aluminum vein. In the back
there are skids and skids and
skids of this shit and for years
someone just pushes them around.
I am replaceable. If you just don’t care,
I think you know where your hands should be.