A Free Pen

They walk through in suits and high heels,

Black, sleak, expensive.
And you sit there, like a prostituited fool watching them come and go.
Pens, pencils, pins, princes, perscriptions.
Plastic, plastic, plastic.
They tell you to have a good weekend.
What about all the other days?
It's only Tuesday,
And all could go to hell before than.
They wouldn't know, though.
(Or care either?)
Make small talk about the weather, or the new cheap novel.
Meanwhile, the whole world could be crumbling.
And all they could do is put you in their suit case,
Or in a brochure, or a statistic.
Or if you're lucky,
Maybe they will tell you to have a nice evening,
And hand you a free pen.