tickertape

[Doreen Peri]

(2004)

I have been occupied like a tenement house.
they have stood in line to buy my delicacies,
me, the slave to hours and the power tickets
i sold, a showgirl in a candystriper uniform.
i was the matinee, later the model
only in shoes, sold hosiery in the afternoon,
hooked myself up with applied physics,
mixed substances in a laboratory setting,
wrapped up the product in neat little packages,
data entry to the big machine housed
in another building entirely, reports
in streams on Tickertape, the celebration
of Poseidon and Polaris.

I have worked to cook spoons, baled hay
the way a dilettante fashions herself hearty,
lifted up strings strung too tight to hold the weight
between inside knuckles, held the burp from a
slobber over my shoulder, bib draped to protect
a silk soul and I have scolded myself repeatedly
for starting the business
too late.

I have strived to accept rent,
added vendors to my list, appropriated
dividends, allotted hours to contracts.

I have spied on the enemy with a concealed recorder,
border patrol my comrades, elicited the printing
of fictitious manuscripts full color glossy.

The for lease sign is still up after the residency.
I have given time in exchange for a signature.
I have sold myself as insurance for an image.
I have advertised futility.

I have been the chambermaid
for exotic estates of mind,
emptied trash in corporate buildings,
rent control, section eight, the state on my tail
like snake oil, sold it, too, orchestrated
parades on a downtown avenue, danced
in six inch heels on the strip.

Tickertape kept track of the earnings, right?
I take stock in self employment. My occupation
rents itself out to the checkwriter.

I am ashamed of myself.