When the fridge is empty,
I crave paper money.
When my pockets are stuffed
with receipts and detritus
there is nothing more to buy
into.
Love does not accept
money as tender,
yet it seems to alter
chemistry
dissolving this exchange.
As compelling as it is
to appropriate,
as we must, everything
has a place,
the toil never ends.
Pockets of air
take care of filling empty
voids and holes
and we are all full of it-
Language to gnaw,
gristle and by the way-
none of the above
ever satisfied the thirst
for our own consumption.
I will find a way
to take smaller bites,
preferring less
seasoning
or taste in love.
Painting by: Pyotr Ivanovich Subbotin-Permyak. Down the river (1918).
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