Poem the Avatar

is all that we are
pushed and patrolled
Poem looks about, peers
through the petrol haze
at the library call numbers’
sequence and scratches his head

if it were a heading
the world would read: Caution
Under Construction—Check
Back in Two Weeks

Identity brushes past Poem
down the library aisle glancing
at his ineptitude, noting
his pout and defeated slouch
--a faint odour of
ginger and justice lingers
as she passes

so Poem heads for the facsimile street, walks
out looking for clues to origins and
why water is so expensive

the sidewalk or small
path through the orders of knowledge
stops

okay,
what now, Poem asks
looking up from the white edge
of invention—what now?