Every time I peer
deep into the chasm
of raw dead skin in leather folds,
the vacuum issues a harsh scold,
demanding my attention,
ordering my devotion!
I only consent to exhale marked with a scowl-
in private resignation,
abetting the crime
followed by a hollow growl.
Puppet masters play heart strings-
hear the beat, bass tone of guilt.
The tempo tells, chanting, incanting, vexing
your blind habits,
will fall into place.
Stringing us along as though
it knew the way to love yet gives
nothing in return.
Keep the change.
Forget counting all the beans.
What does money have to do with
ways and means?
It buys excuses.
Material dreams are for oxymorons.
What I've found in that narrow slit of wallet-
where the green flags marked camp,
are unopened drawers, little opportune doors, windows cracked by the panes
so the air can return,
recirculating the wealth.
Who knew?
I'd be richer without you.
Image By Unknown or not provided (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
