The lady behind the glass
opens her eyes
as a quarter tings
in the machine.
She lifts her head
in an ever so animated way,
and she speaks,
but behind her animatronic voice
I feel her sadness.
She moves her hands,
fashioned from peach painted plastic,
and she tells from her
painted on smile
of a new beginning.
I find her fascinating
in all the ways she seems like me.
Speaking only when provoked,
and only what has been hardwired into her.
the saddest part of her tragic tale though,
is the smile she's been
programmed to smile
during the worst of times.
I feel her pain,
and I too,
am sick of pretending.

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