Tellerman
1 min readAug 8, 2022
a poem
Tellerman will be right with me to see me through their french door,
Beggerman I am to ask a dollar nothing more,
Greased hands espresso stain on cuffs with links of gold,
Tellerman, your pity please in this sick-face life of I.
The tat worn to the bone from oil made of children,