I play for brightly coloured feathers.
Almost every dancing drag queen,
musician with a guitar
knows the value of fivers and applause.
Is mine the bump-and-grind literature
of back alleys and dumpsters?
Of ivory towers and the faculty lounge?
Joe from the bus, and the factory shift?
I give a new book
to people living on the street.
They can sell it, trade it, or use it for rags.
And maybe read between the lines
for stale bread and soup,
a warm shower at the shelter,
between dry socks and a separate reality.