My chapped-lipped, checked-out, dance-pop ode to retail

I was a model employee at the mirage factory.

Moved through the bland-faced clothes racks with swagger,
The cumulative bite of two dozen hangers on my arm;
Noticing everything but speaking vapors. 

Too female from the neck down in my black top;
Five-foot-four with a white lie.
So they talk down,
Snap fingers, click tongues, demand.

Just last week--

My throat burns with artificial honey
As I watch my neighbor sell
Some death-trap crap-card 
To New Americans, 
their accents rich and resonant.

Fake-woke headbands on my first day,
Fake-pride t-shirts on my last. 

My Dear Associates, the only motive is profit. 

The faint crooning covers
fill our heads with TV static
Managers fluently changing our channels
So we'll never quite get context on a scene

A business optimized for distraction,
For selling a squeaky-clean athletic-wear vision.
The people can get their sneakers anywhere.
Our pandering is standard. 

That calculated, crushing blandness
Was for me.