It’s either a little bit sad, or a little bit touching
the newfangled ways you beg for my money, so shamelessly
and so openly. “Send me two days of wages, I’ll send you
a magic pill.” Your promises are tempting.
Better sex. Better bodies. A lover like new
toilet paper, sweet-smelling and cotton-soft.
While I know I shouldn’t believe you (and believe me, I don’t)
I don’t know if the inquiry reflects badly on you
for trying so falsely to procure trust
or poorly on me, on us, on a civilization of beings
who share the same veins and the same arteries
for being chronically, even fatally, unwilling to give it.