Currency

Dance around the tree
and stuff your pockets
poking holes through seams
with prickly

hope.

Mom tells her never to
say where she’s foraged / fills
her pail with nuts in spiny shells

cracked by gravity
ready for fire.

Home she dumps the hoard
under floorboards filling a midden poised
for liquidation in case of

urgency.

Limp and cane call her
out the window / delicate handful
dumps into papery palms / shhh

take these to trade.

© SF Jones, 2014

Dystopia is a poetic worldbuilding project. Each day for the next week, I will post a poem that exposes the characteristics of a fictional setting. The pieces will showcase the physical conditions and/or the emotions and interactions of the people who live there. Let your imagination run wild; I will do the same.

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