I Thought There Would More Money Involved With Selling Out

My revolution quietly ended
when I slipped on
a sky blue button up.

Jacob on a patch
above the right breast pocket
the company name
on the left.

The name no longer felt like mine.
Seeing it sewn
in some half cursive font
stole the power from it.

I can recall
being called it
by my mother
with Charles and Mendelsohn tacked on
when I was being an ass.

Or a lover amused
by some line about love
that was cheesy
and cliché,
but honest nonetheless.

I can see the scenes.
Stir up the old feelings.
But I can’t hear my name anymore,
just see the movement of the lips
that once formed it.

I started working on this one a couple weeks back when I was full of angst on my lunch break.  It had been about a week since I had been given uniforms for work, up to that point I wore a t shirt and jeans.  Freight elevator operators need to look classy I guess.  The name tag uses this really hellish font that looks like fake cursive, it’s the comic sans of the working class.

You can see here how I’ve been reading too much fantasy lately and the idea of the amount of power in a name crept in.  It was very unexpected (almost magical) how soul crushing putting the uniform on was.  My job is essentially standing in an elevator and looking in the void for 8 hours a day.  Putting the uniform on felt like I was more bond to it than I previously was.