Sky Market

It seemed a sky
free of commercials,
blue and cloudless.
But he could sense,
swimming in all directions,
waves of banded frequency,
like hungry carp
fighting for food pellets
in a tiny pool
at the Botanical Garden.
With his rifle raised,
he shot to break
their pitching rhythm.
The dog ran out
to gather worry-free guarantees
and limited-time offers.
For dinner he’d eat
an employee discount
and wash it down with a bottle
of celebrity voice-overs.
If he awoke before dawn,
still hungry,
there’d be enough
in the fridge
for buy-one-get-one-free leftovers.

This poem originally appeared in the Spring/Summer 2007 issue of Atlanta Review.