Poem: Owed

of my fortnightly paycheck the only thing I keep is the memory that money once was there.

my payslip tells lies, surely.

I have asked my eftpos card to come clean, confess to what it’s been up to so far every time it’s declined.

The truth: I never had it; that is the money for the work that I do seems never meant for me, and always destined for you

and find…