A construct of exchange is in my pocket

They say it burns a hole and so it seems

It scorches the landscape of my fingers

And as I deftly touch count the amount

Of loose change I have for an ‘avo’ on toast’

I come across a scene you couldn’t dream of.

And I realise that I revere this evil curse,

But even worse, that I’ve failed to see,

You cannot return wood to a tree.