Lend me three hundred certainties, Mister Death.
In cash. You’ll have it back on my payday,
and whatever interest levied. By my breath,
I need the loan right now to make my way.
My boyfriend does not want me to move in
yet. I’m leaving school without a job.
My visa is expiring. I begin
again a sonnet when the brain’s a throb.
Last Saturday, the Berkeley economist
spoke of the lenders jacking up their stalls
and interest rates for those desperate or pissed,
scuffing or sleeping in poverty’s malls.
He explained to me how it’s irrational
to borrow from death in order to subsist.