My Poem Lives a Black-Market Life

In this country it has found

the loophole in the system

and makes a home in it.

And when it breaks down

I tinker the spark plugs until

it is fixed. Use a can of petroleum

is why my poem smells of petroleum.

My poem wants dollars

because it goes to Panama,

buys things there to ship back.

It needs dollars for that.

I bought my poem a refrigerator

and paid the shipping

because you can’t get one like that

here. I feel terrible, I like the poem

the way it is, with all

of its complexity. All soap

is Dial soap. All napkins white.