Generic People, by Douglas McHargue

Douglas McHargue

Gold circling their wrists
clink like forty carats
and you wonder why they marvel
over Cascade, Palmolive,
oohing at Big Box prices
when their clipped accents
and proper nouns,
designer sweaters scream
We Own the Franchise.

Why don’t they leave stuff
for people like you
mortgaged to infinity,
duct taped car,
generic soaps
generic pills.

Generic you,
khaki pants
tan shirt
tan shoes
that pasty pallor
people mistake you
for the wall
always bumping into you
startled when you
blink and breathe.

4 thoughts on “Generic People, by Douglas McHargue

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