FicWad

He is a peacock, strutting around
I've never cared much for their flashy feathers.
He is a Victorian armchair with soft-looking cushions
That feels like a rock when I sit.
He is the morning fog, blinding and cold
Covering some mystery that isn't really there.
He is a pair of too-tight gloves
A needless adornment I still want to wear.
He is a radio, turned on loud
Able to shout but never listen.
He is a song whose lyrics mean nothing
A wonderful rhythm without any depth.
He is New York City, that bustling metropolis
That looks like Broadway success but is full of side-street failure.
He is an exotic but foul-smelling flower
For display and nothing more.
He is a brand new SUV on the road
Guzzling gas and breaking down too fast.
He is expensive junk at a big-name store
A lamp I don't need, but still buy.
He is a star in the night, like a diamond
But just a burning ball of gas when I get close.
And I am the mindless consumer
Lucky to be a dollar short for purchase.