Pawned

Happy that a short story of mine was accepted by a reputable publication, I opened my laptop to dig up a poem I had left half-finished a fortnight ago. And then I stumbled upon what you’ll read below.

I have no recollection of the time, context, or the conditions that gave birth to it. And the style is not my usual one. Yet, I was positively surprised — that’s an understatement; I really enjoyed reading it, precisely because it didn’t feel like mine.

At the  pawnshop 
poets queue
to forfeit
inspiration 
for subsistence.
The line is reaching the pavement.

The clerk babbles 
and quickly turns them 
away.

“A guilt?
No, no, sir. 
We’ve plenty of those.”

“A fear? 
For God’s sake, Madame. 
A dozen a dime.”

“A break up? 
Come on! 
Who is next?”

“A crime? 
Please leave 
before I call the police”

“You, girl? Mental abuse?
I am afraid not. 
If it were more tangible…”

“What’s  in your hand, boy? 
A pebble?”
“No, sir. 
A God-made poem.”