Salt over the shoulder

 

somewhere through the key hole of middleclassdom
snug into privileged cuddly
Habits of a new sophistication foreign and ugly
reaching back toward that battered way of life
from a life of plenty
through a slang, a laziness, a void in one's identity

Well if I could be more
i'd rub it like herbs into steak
Like salt into wounds
like dirt into eyes
chords into tunes
hard deathly lines into runes

Like a contract 
tatooed into the skin and rediscovered at winters end
An arrival banner at the end of a race
a new car as it pulls into a drive way of bushes and envy
A salary will you push you up toward it

your face expenditure
your voice advertising
your life a rehearsal
to endorse this game of ascension