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.