Everything is priced and nothing is worth it.
Here is a life, spread over card tables,
and here are strangers, holding it, deciding.
The good china is nine dollars.
The photographs are free and nobody takes them.
I buy a wooden spoon for fifty cents
because somebody stirred forty years with it
and I could not stand to see it left.
This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch
