ode to the overpriced art

The lights flicker on and the metal in their teeth glints like the end of the pencil.
The pencil.
Its silver and rubber and yours for only sixteen installments of everything you own.
You can change the pressure with your mind and if you buy it they'll throw in a compliment from the man.
The man.
He sits atop a spinning chair decorated with stickers of all your niche interests and a tshirt with your brother's favorite band. His shoes are muddy and inky, with illegible words you could only wish he would explain to you
He has on a pair of joker esque plaid pants with a corny fake silver wallet chain and you sulk in your chipping painted tshirt
But he likes it
He says it looks cool
He says you look cool
And you're an artist
Not by your own volition but because he says so
And you're so punk and DIY and different
You walk down the isles that reach to the ceiling and squint under the spotlight
It smells like charcoal and cardboard and paint and “viva la gloria (little girl)” by green day and once again you're seven
And your brother calls you strong
And it's all because of the pencil