poem featuring a forced conceit of commerce

i will my form

into the cardboard cube

and feel the constriction

in my lungs

as the shrink wrap

seals me in

the thud of my own weight

resists the conveyor belt

shaking my organs

until I lose my mass

and float

then the vertigo of transport

lulls me

into unconsciousness

until dozens of rough hands

pitch me about

and arrange me

for display

oblivion takes over and

once again the darkness

awaits the disturbance

of another set of rough hands

on my fresh smooth exterior

cluttered with refrains

of corporate fingerprints

the beep that peppers

such commercial haggle

assesses the merit

of my varying black lines

until the reluctant rough hands

tender paper currency

and remain outstretched

for the leftover pennies