Two Cents Per Coyote

I only have
a kent penny
and a pelt
to my name,
and I am so silly
that I urge you
to read this poem
out loud in public
in a British accent.

Every time I am stuck in the ground,
no matter what,
our separate chests
still stand for something
like breezes stand for wind.

Let's fuck now
and suffer later
in lounge chairs,
sweating to the music
of Morrissey while
complaining about climate change
or some such shit.