In an Old Bank
Down on Wolf Street, New York
He computed every last computation
He punched every punchable key
Nothing could multiply his profit
Probably it wasn't counted
To his own income account
Down there in Manhattan
She computes
Endlessly Because of This Gift
I Have It So I Can Manipulate It
Bend It To My Will
Made of Rubber or Not or Hard Plastic Probably
I Was Disturbed by Her Face Because Her Greed
Goes Unquestioned
I Can't Believe She Collects
Or Anagrams or Anasolves Each Item
What she has in her apartment
No one knows, except for
Crisp, SawBoard-y Cardboard
She turns on the lamp at night
Each window lit just right
God knows what she has up there
What she collects in the upstairs attic
Who knows what's inside those PigBellAlarms (tm)
Or if fake cherry fruits ever helped her live better
If she goes to the Protestant or the Catholic Heaven
We only know what kind of devotional she reads at night
What she keeps up there is a bunch of boardgames
I think we are more than friends. We are inner happiness.
We are riches. Real riches.
You guessed it. She's a Red Rhum Kickstarter. Why do we kick the drum?
ReplyDeleteTami: It sincerely made me feel very scared.
ReplyDeleteSpoken Word Poetry involves some voice acting as they still have to be creative.
ReplyDelete