The Trading Room
The dust clusters gather in unsanitised lines,
As the air-con inhales and then vomits and whines
At the stale stench of failure, the pale faces below
That mooch around tables refusing to go
'Till their catalogue's complete and their browsing is done,
Their life's worth before them in the Trading Room.
The ubiquitous parka and carrier bag,
The obligatory rucksack still with shop ID tag.
The plimsolls, the pockets filled with fat marker pens,
'Sign my book please I won't trouble you again',
Until the next time you venture into this fashion free zone,
To this wardrobe of extinction, that's the Trading Room.
The immaculate mint product that the traders present
To the great unwashed masses with their uniform scent,
A rare first edition or a scarce issue one,
A prop from a scene; perhaps a mask or a gun,
Some may even browse in their hero's costume,
As they compound their own doom within the Trading Room.
Where cellophane excites and renders pages pristine,
The thrill of the touch upon a sheen that's wipe clean.
Delicate and precise, an examination begins
Of a grail that is holy beneath its protective four skins,
That shield the desirables one can find in this womb,
Of solo pursuits here in the Trading Room.
From table to table they shuffle their feet,
Unaware of this stigma begging social defeat,
Yet those curious eyes that are so quick to sneer,
Become envious eyes when they see how sincere
The dust clusters are with their harmless fortune
Which is available for all inside the Trading Room.