TOKEN

This week's quota has been filled
my ticket punched, the token
debt of time and flesh satisfied. A gash

is cut into the earth, a parched
desert floor so long without a raging
river, cracks and doesn't even bleed.

The thin frail trickle of hope, a fine-boned
sorrow so guilty of longing, a ravenous
animal prowls tight as darkness when

the moon is hidden by the shadow of the earth.
You ask what would feel like love. Any answer
I could give would be a hand inside

your pocket searching for a coin
to feed the meter, and even though the arrow
would say full, I'd still feel empty.

© Joan Barton, 1999

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