Art Dealer

Priced and tagged
and hung for a look
or a glance and a
note when it’s shook.
The glamour of oil
in the arms of its creator;
we sit and clap when
it’s three months later
and the clocks have stopped
and the trucks are docked.
Count backwards and
wonder if the
roads should be chocked.
We’re orators that swell
in the heat and the smell
at the mute catcalling
and ringing of bells.
The price is too much,
regardless of touch,
and we’ve been sold
straight down the river.


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