One Pound Fifty Poem by Clive Culverhouse

sun tanned unevenly, foxed
grimy fingers caress bruising
pounded by day's narration
churlish in onyx, was its hint
over feathered combs, see,
of flicked, creased pages
buried, stained words
were never read
while cold rooms grow colder
an author's sweat for nothing
stemmed the reader's keen
though skimmed at best
and your dilated pupils
captured out-of-breath palates
so I travelled second hand
yesterday, for just over a quid