Tellerman

a poem

Photo Courtesy of Author

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,

--

--

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store
N.S. Simko

N.S. Simko

2.1K Followers

Poetry, prose, short stories, and experimentations. Whatever distracts me from working on my novel.