A Beggary

The poorest man in the world
turned himself in to the French

police a few years ago, for making
unauthorized trades on the stock

market. You don't really know what that
means, as in all your working life, you've 

never had the luxury of what's called
disposable income. And that man  

described as the poorest man in the world  
looks nothing but: holding a thin mobile phone

to his ear, clad in some kind of torso-
hugging zipped lycra shirt. There's debt,

and then there's debt of another kind,
more than coin that anyone could borrow 

to keep lives afloat. That kind 
is harder to repay though it seems

to slip through our fingers, unwriteable
like water. There's weather, or rather

what weathers you: condition of need
flayed repeatedly, panic of small

movements until you stick a hand in
the gaping wall. Something is always

pouring through: a deluge, a fire-flash.
And between one and the other, you swing

like the lub to the dub of a heartbeat,
from laminar flow to reckless turbulence.


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