I have a pocketof unread poems, one cent pieces, which on occasion I fondle; fingers in pants, I imagine highlights, shadows, the textures of Honest Abe's emancipation.
While chatting of God-cares what with God-cares whom-- "cold winter coming," or "did you see the jugs on that one?"-- I push pocketed poems against each other, feel friction of relief against relief, until the whirr of words is shushed by hushed rubbing of coins.
Poems are pocketed like pennies, distractions of poor purchasing power, stamped with images of ideals murdered at the best show; they are good for small things: paying the tag end of a tax; occupation in the pocket; distraction from lazy words; or, for spilling on concrete and counting people passing, unstooping, unlucky.
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