Ten and Nothing*
     or *the blades of karma

Lean not against my walls, push through.
I'm the patron patience you've been seeking,
and saint of the secrets keeping you. Scooped
from the ditch out of which you grew
and were cast back into, I found you,
drooped and slinking. I picked you up

and fastened your stinking habits to my brass.
Not for thinking everything I retrieve
from the pits and slicks and sinking eaves
need be carried or repaired,
maybe only spared or made aware
that being sick is far from being buried.

I should know a shifty snitch will only
trench and trudge to see glue used
in lieu of a proper stitch. The bench
was proof, too. My sister's chagrin
as you refused an outstretched clutch,
shillings cinched up, a clenched fist
calculatedly compassionless.

Have you enough tax-deductible tallies
on the slate that hones the blades
of karma's discriminating grate?
Uncurl your ornate petition
and show us all the stones you've sown
for admission through the pearl gate,

The finest few ford fortune's river,
spite shaft, shiver, and devotedly make
a living of giving just to be a giver.