Poetry

Cash Register Sings the Blues

Photo by Shangyou Shi on Unsplash

This isn’t my dream job. As a young sheet
of steel and plastic, I dreamt of being melted

down into a dancer’s pole in Vegas. I wanted
a woman in a headdress glossy as a gossamer

to wrap her lithe limbs around me. I wanted
to be strewn in lights, smell her powdery perfume.

Instead, I’m a squat box crouched behind the counter,
noticed only if someone robs me. I’m touched all day,

but never…