Open to Interpretation
I found one hundred pounds but gave it all away.
The money is an exaggeration: I lied to
keep a copper two pence coin, worth
a slice of bread borrowed from a roommate.
I’m not a fan of lines drawn in the kitchen yours and
mine. One hundred pounds won’t be spent on bread.
Walked the world in two moon cycles eating only ice cream.
Melting sticky, fingers remember cotton-paper currency
can be dry with possibilities; Might be anything
might be anything at all… in places I’ve seen
the poverty trading bread and ice cream:
Fullness or sweetness, decide then.
Bread: lines in the sandwich are lines in a kitchen.
Sugar cream makes mockeries of these geometric boundaries;
roadmaps draw lines to and from, not mine and yours.
Surrendered my roadmap to find one hundred pounds
will get nothing less than emptiness;
perhaps nothing less exists at all.
Unearthed one hundred pounds to give away;
The money was knowledge, but try telling anyone
who knows more than words and pictures.
As the story goes and grows, I’ll relay
some passages whispered others on a podium.
Some wooden men are soap boxes shouting
from street corners in dead languages concerning
Forgotten currency on concrete. Beauty
marks on unfortunate faces. How beautiful
a morning with pocket’s painted possibilities.
Wondering of fullness or sweetness,
full—like my pocket—of potential
lost by congruent hands:
currency on currents, not mine to decide
whether fullness or sweetness defines a life.
If only you knew.
If only you knew.
Decide then, demanding of me,
fingers sticking with hope—perhaps borrowed—
from the raw altitude of a mile walked upward. We
are coming back down to a stone, my palm’s size,
Cobble-grey like the lost potential of
one hundred pounds found and given away,
Resting on cotton-paper currency facedown.