Deficient Funds

P-town, Down Town,
Pen Up, Palm out

Not Alms Alms Alms for the poor
But God-damn I want to shout so that you'll take
account of the God-forsaken state of a wreck I'm in.

Pretty Shoes, they go click clack on the warm red brick
of a hollow bowl, a skater's dream, It's the city holding court for us to preen.

Deficient in funds, please fill my cup, a figurative cup,
With coins, coins, coins, conscientious coins that see, me
and say with a metal cling, "In God we trust."

They're our own personal platters on which to stand,
an alternative to falling into the deep black something.

On Which, were people on display in the bright colors of plenty arranged
in stitched precision over arm and leg, surface representation of the lower level
cafe, where scones and talent are up for those who'll pay and give praise
to the hangings on the wall

Paintings of the graves of gods and other tangible reminders of times repeating gong and our own spot in the plot quickly loosing sand.

But chin up, times not up, there's still a penny to be had.