Why my job sucks

So I know this is punny, and rather cheezy, and incorporating pagan gods with puns and cheeseball-ness may not fit exactly into a standard for "good" poetry, but I just couldn't help myself.




Pharmaceutical Representative






is such an unnatural
conglomeration of words;
mostly resembling porcelain dolls
with the politically correct
one
single
African American Porcelain Doll.

I, the atypical barista
at the corporate coffee shop,
stare through you to a foamy
misty future.

You order many four dollar lattes
many, many, four dollar lattes,
affording them on the plastic credit
of your over-paid drug company.

Back to the building of dead and dying,
you offer the scissor arms
and cotton coats
your nose
to their asses
and then
the lattes I made.

They nonchalantly purchase your drugs.

Mammon
is satiated,
Moloch
spares you the furnace
heated by a multiple of 7 times
this quarter,
replenishes your credit card's
empty belly.

You return to me like
Porcelain Dolls,
with the politically correct
one
single
African America Porcelain Doll
and a list of names
and more names
and multi-named drinks,
and drinks that don't even exist.

If you do not smile, you're face may crack,
and mine certainly will not.

You order, you joke, you
don't tip, and I again
do your job for you.


Except this time you're getting all decaf and don't even know it.