Poetry #1
T’was the summer of six or nine, don’t remember, when the bankers started raining down
Swans diving from gargoyle fixtures, feathers useless as Icarus’ wings
Beating, helpless against the chains and melted wax of insubstantial greed
And we sit, watching, comets of misery plunging to earth and think…
It was never my fault.
And – how do I get as rich as them?
And – why couldn’t that have been me?
And – what does it take to be happy?
And now that money is gone, what gods are there?
