in KISS MY POETRY

WRITINGS, MUSINGS, POETRY

Mall of America

In America, even the old are expected to work.
No rest for the wicked. How true.
Even in retirement, one goes to bed exhausted.
There’s no relief. We all are required to pump
our own gas.
We used to buy our clothes off the rack.
Now we sift suits off the floor. There are no clerks.
Profits are up. They’ve figured out how to serve
the masses without a waitress.

Do-it-yourself people. I blame it
all on pampers. No one does the wash.
It’s a throwaway nation. In just a matter
of time, we’ll be picking through the garbage,
as they do in Jakarta. Why have stores?
Why build shelves? There’s no point in placing
clothes on hangers. Dump it all in a pile
and let the masses go for it. Sell the
merchandise by the pound, regardless.
Books, too!

Enron nation. The companies…

View original post 525 more words

Author: oldepunk

Writing about my views of the world in a stream of conscience style

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