A salesman going door to door,
selling bottled rain and sniffed fingers,
selling angel-scented handkerchiefs.
A salesman in an ill-fitting suit,
selling love-powder and paper aqualungs.
Broken manhole covers. A dent in a bucket.
Bio-degradable motion detectors.
The uninvited, leaning on your front door’s bell,
hauling a black satchel, carrying snake-hips
and vapourous handles. Hair dye for the dead.
A swastika of smoking ashes.
Who’s selling two absolutes for a dollar,
the semi-divine, and storm windows too –
lest yon tempest offend thee.