Corporate Identity
this saturday you’re behind the counter
in the work coat you want to shed
like an unwanted skin at the end of your shift.
there’s the 5 o’clock rush to get through
& you don’t want to hear how Michael on bags
got an extra shift at subway to save for his car.
Your white name tag lets the customers think
they can call you by your name;
the logo on your chest promises a New World
but little was gained from the shelvers’ lockout.
What’s left after the prepaid’s paid for
you’ll put to a silver Playboy necklace
with an imitation diamond eye, or
a pair of Nike trainers, each whoosh
a tick for a Vietnamese child’s
fourteen hour day. last week tala
gave you resurrection & you copied
tupac shakur’s name into your senior
social studies notebook in the style
of a typeface owned by the sony Corporation.
You hand back the man’s Flybuy card, try
not to frown as he fumes when the EFTPOS
doesn’t take his PIN. on your inside
left thigh there’s a tattoo of the Vietnamese
character for love you let no–one but tala
see. You got the idea from angelina Jolie—
now it has become your own & beneath black
polyester pants the sigil warms you;
keeps you real.
by Harvey Molloy
Albatross, Spring 2009; Anabiosis Press