When We Are Poor

When we are poor, one hardcover
at the bookstore is worth two paperbacks
so we try not to look at the secure covers too long. Later
at the public library it translates unconsciously
(my purse full of call-numbered paperbacks)
and we never question it, telling ourselves
we read what we've earned. (Paper my back
because I do not own a home.) We spend
our wickedly lonely days eating pound of pink
lipstick and listening
(rooms full of voices) to all histories (in all languages)/ hear;
pains of regret/ pains of extinction.

Try writing the great questions in hot pink lipstick on the mirrors
(of the soul) Is there a God? (and)
Who wants to know?