Tuesday, December 19, 2006

#240: December 19, 2006

I don't mind if my labor fills your pockets
and sends gold coins cascading down your thighs;
nor whether you bury, invest, or sock it
under your mattress ere you close your eyes--

I don't care if the company stocks plummet
and all your golden parachutes collapse;
if my small efforts could have kept them from it,
you should have looked before you leaped, perhaps.

No stacks of money nor jars of spare change'll
exhalt me like the wind on my damp skin
in Spring; and my paycheck won't buy the angel
whose lilac wings nightly gather me in;

No matter how my worth has shrunk or grown
My value's set through her commerce alone.

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