These days, most of what
you make you make up.
It is a spouting fountain
of imaginary income.
A mutual fund of fecundity.
You can’t spend it anywhere,
but your pockets are bursting
with words and flowers.
And the only tax you pay is
ninety percent of your heart.
Such a rich and clever man.

If you value my work, and can afford it, please consider sending me a buck or two at Paypal. Even poets have to eat. :)

Honorary Schizophrenic. Recent refugee. Displaced person. Old white male. Confidant of cassowaries.

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