Merciel

Every tap upon the glass garners not one word;
my whimpers, my wit, my rants are unheard.
Their bustle has muffled my cries for sight
with noise that smothers mine as the starry nights
are bullied by Times Square lights. My meager might
cannot transfigure this lonely beggar’s life
when nobody brings me Kisses or butters me up
with sugary tweets or lavishes my dusty cup
with candy-coated creams. I dine on dreams
of awe and adoration but remain unseen,
fed only copies and pastes. Am I just a name
to fatten your list, to feed your own fetish for fame?
It’s a game I never learned how to play. A runt
has no value in a market glutted with cunts.