“Snake oil salesman:” a poem

Snake oil salesman

The wagon creaks as it rolls,

wheels strained from the load

of hollow promises stacked full.

How is it that the snake oil salesman

knows the perfect time to enter

the town, calling out to the crowd,

enticing them with bold claims

of quick and certain cures?

Is it something in him?

Is it something in me?

He arranges all the items

they believe they need,

with well-designed labels

and slick branding.

The vials glint in the sun,

as do his eyes when he sees

their attention fixed on him,

their yearning for a better day

warped by his hunger to be adored.

All day he offers a fantasy,

well-rehearsed and proficient enough

with the plight of the people,

they believe he actually cares.

As the sun sets, he sits alone

counting his money, still hungry,

and checking the wheels

for the next day’s journey.

Stuart