I sometimes think it's kind of funny,
how little poets write of money.
It's like we've never stayed up in terror,
fretting on an accounting error.
Or wept about a carpet stain
in our picturesque garrets on the Seine.
(And what's the rent on that rooftop peak?
Google says eighty-six hundred a week.
Quite a way to waste away
in picturesque poverty, day by day.)
Maybe we don't think it strange,
to write no sonnet to spare change--
how crass, I suppose we think,
to search for quarters under the sink.
The feeling just isn't profound or deep--
that existential financial creep,
that slowly steals life's little joys,
or fills the head with senseless noise.
Really, let's work the metaphor
of poverty knocking at the door.
It's really just a symbol, see?
Of a deeper mystery.
It's just not real, this sense of dread,
as you choose between buying ink or bread.
It's just so common, such a drain--
thinking low thoughts rots the brain.
The feeling... it just isn't real!
Money isn't what you feel,
it's just a... a... symbol... no, already used...
a... pretense, an annoyance, just a ruse...
There is no real senseless fear
of taxes and payments in arrears.
It's just not something to write about,
the gnawing, gnashing financial doubt.
The tears you cried in the depths of night,
were really about... about something.... right...
Not just money, not just bills...
It has to be something much more...
Oh, damn, the rhymes are fading fast
Thinking of the night time math
the number that never come out right
and, God, the end is out of sight...
Maybe it's not really funny,
how little poets write of money.