February 3, 2005

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                                             My Window, Looking Out The Back At Dawn

  
  

   

  
  

  To the banker who loved me once when we were young, and then again...

  
  

  "But I, being poor, have only my dreams and have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams." -Yeats

  
  

   

  
  

                                       The Banker's Heart

  
  

   

  
  

  You,
   you have a silver money clip
  and pay me for my DNA,
  exchanging paper
  for the ornaments I make
  for ears and throats of others, 
  wrought from the heart's rubies,
  some wire, some gold.  

  
  

   You also offered me your voice, 
  That's easy, cheap,
  low interest to be paid.
  But for a moment there you slipped
  and placed your hands around my heart,
  offering yours,
  quickly retracted
  like a bad loan. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Being poor, I could only give myself, 
  my soft breast to rest your head,
  my words and songs an anodyne
  to your days in bankers' weeds. 

  
  

   

  
  

  I had nothing but my dreams
  to spread beneath your feet,
  I had no carpet
  of the finest Persian silk
  for you to walk on,
  just the dreams.

  
  

   You, 
  I think you'd led too long
  a calculating life.
  You never learned to count your dreams. 
  Your calculator had no keys for dreams. 

  
  

   You wear size 12's,
  finely made big heavy shoes.
  I watched them walk you
  right on through those dreams,
  right on through,

  
  

  carrying you off the other side
  into the wilderness
  where there are no wild beasts
  like love.   

  
  

   

  
  

  pearbamboo

  
  

  ©2005

  • 7:35 pm
  • 3 Comments