i sold a poem today

at the junction of plenty road and dunn street

where they used to sell age in the mornings to passing cars stopped

before the red light

or waited to collect coins to fill in barrels of charity

or wiped a few coins out of the unconcerned window screens

but i sold a poem today

believe it or not

to an australian

a bloody australian

who looked like a greek

spoke like an asian

smelt like a middle eastern

behaved like an adolescent

average man

who said:
pom? what ya mean, pom?
i shouted in his grey hair of y/ears:

i’m going broke and mad today

this is all i’ve got

a poem of pants

not punts

nor puns

that i had picked up in a garage sale

for a couple of bucks

that i had worn though thick and thin

in a lot of fucks

i’ll just give it to you

for a cent
(here it is

i have the cent

he’s got the po(e)m

i don’t know what to do with it

nor does he)
you understand?