Poem By Anthony Dawson

Every morning a woman comes and hand picks her rubbish -

Gems discarded by the elite of the city.

She takes them to an interesting shop;

There she exchanges them for a meal ticket (money)

She chooses her meal as if fine combing a menu in elegant Paris,

In the finest eatery, along the finest strip.

Her meal is that of which they (the elite)

would never consider to chew.

Her enjoyment in consuming such a meal is one which

They can never realise.

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Other poems of DAWSON

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Weakens my magnet for you to escape into sleep
I asked the girl in the corridor if she was a
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