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Dalia |
Not the cost of bread,
But if you’re killed in a rockslide,
If you’ll be dug out of the rubble?
(A man with no legs got onto the metro,
He was not begging for money because he was selling something.
I didn’t give him anything,
And he said “Miss,” and I made way for him to pass.
And then I objectified him here,
Dragging himself along the floor,
His right arm bound like my right arm.
So now he’s an artifact,
‘Cause legless men look good in poems,
And so maybe after reading this,
You’ll give him a pound for his trouble)
Measured out with railcards,
With the taking of coffee and tea,
With the intake from the waterpipe
And the exhalation of silent, timestricken maladies,
I have tried to answer “why,”
I have and halve,
Until I’m left with the vestiges of an assumption.
Labels: Dalia
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