In an alley last night
my poetry vendor promised
that this time my money would be
well spent;
All these poems are fresh,
she told me.
Inspiration comes cheap on Saturdays.
You're in luck.


My inspiration hasn't been much
of a dancer lately,
so I took the chance.
After all, it was Saturday,
and my words could just as easily
be in her pocket
as anywhere else.


It came in a brown paper bag
(Of course.)
and with a little scrawled note
informing me that I would not be
entitled to a refund
if the poem proved weakly existential,
contorted with self-reference
or fundamentally senseless


and I knew before reading it
I'd bought another cliche.