Man and woman stand in front of a shop
arguing over the money in his pocket.
Outraged at the expense, he withholds his love
as the security guard eyes them with a quiet distaste.
It is 12:14 in the afternoon.
In the store
dumb mannequins stand with vacant expressions
in the same old places, with the same old faces.
The lights and clutter
decorate a wide and pristine clear window,
reflecting the worth of that inside
and of what’s happening out front.
One dead eyed shop assistant casts a glance over
the row outside, mimicking the mannequin,
completely aware but failing to care
because she knows that this system has no substance.
Shoppers walk by and try not to notice,
shopping on like it’s an everyday occurrence
(and it probably is),
while the pink clad female
declares the fitness of her partners finance
by drawing a line under it as manhood
in a place where the money marks the person.
The garish fixtures of the shopping centre
add fittings to the ugly scene unfolding
underlining the vacancy of consumer passion.
The man walks away, drawn as “tight fisted”
when some young children pass with their mother:
“Mummy, why are the people arguing over money?”
Another says: “Why don’t they love each other?”
When the mother chirps in:
“Sometimes love is just money.
Sometimes there’s an emptiness that can’t be filled”