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Poem by Fred Joiner


a pocket can sometimes be
a kind of prison,

I have never lived in
a cash economy where the bill

fold unfolds to find someone
creased in the middle,

but perhaps credit moves
the same, the way it scores

the pocket & the body
boxed & bureaued

the edge of a card
cuts anything akin to skin

a Dollar, a Euro, a World
Bank, a debt to erase,

a Race, a weight.

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