Toying With The World

I see world-weary men,
like remote-control people
fresh from the toy aisle,
while selfish women
in the background, plot,
around green paper piles,
as if to age them more;
it must happen slowly
and with each trip to
some fancy restaurant,
or some new store.
Oh, if she grows bored,
he will be damaged,
and if he is smart,
he will not ask for more,
and if he can bandage
the plastic sores,
then he will leave
that dusty, blue store,
and sell his catch-phrase
rather than himself,
"I am the ghost,
drifting past the whore."

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